Clash of Dragons
by RiddleofStrider
Summary: "Why are you here, Solas?" "To warn you. A storm is coming, can you not feel it in the air? Even the spirits of the Fade are trembling. They hide themselves away and speak only in whispers. The blood of the dragon is rising in the east, they say. The Dragonborn comes to Thedas, and he is bringing fury with him."
1. Return of Fen'Harel

**Chapter 1: The Return of Fen'Harel**

Marcus didn't know what to say. Solas stood in front of him with his hands folded behind his back, his face passive, staring at him with those strange elven eyes. He was flanked by Cullen and Blackwall, at least they had the restraint to keep their swords in their scabbards. Bull on the other hand already had his axe out, and his knuckles stood out white against the wooden haft. Marcus was certain he could hear the giant qunari grinding his teeth in frustration. Dorian stood off to one side, his fingers were twitching, tiny sparks dancing between them. The other dozen guards in the room looked nervous, but those four men had murder in their eyes. Marcus could tell they were just looking for any excuse to lash out. Solas didn't give them one. He stood perfectly still, not even his eyes moved. Marcus had no idea whether or not Solas even felt threatened. He doubted it, considering the power he had demonstrated at their last meeting over a year ago at Val Chevin.

The memory made Marcus grimace. He looked down at his hand, or where his hand should have been. The sleeve of his uniform was folded up and pinned just beneath the elbow. He could still feel his fingers, and some days he would forget he was no longer whole until he tried to pick something up with the stump of his arm. Marcus cringed and returned his gaze to Solas.

"Give us the room," he said quietly. The objections came loud and fast, everyone talking at once.

"You can't be serious!?"

"I don't think that's a good idea, boss."

"With that traitor? Not bloody likely."

Marcus raised his remaining hand and all the voices immediately went quiet. "I said, give us the room." His men shuffled their feet and looked to each other uneasily.

"Inquisitor," Dorian crossed the room and stood at his side, "Don't ask us to leave you alone with him. He cannot be trusted."

"He hasn't tried to turn me to stone, yet," Marcus said. Dorian opened his mouth to protest but Marcus cut him off. "Solas requested a parlay, we will honor that request in the spirit that it was made." Solas blinked and inclined his head slightly, and Marcus returned the nod. Dorian's lips formed words that didn't come out. He looked to Cullen for support, but the commander just sighed and shrugged.

"Very well, Inquisitor," Cullen bowed respectfully. The guards began filing out of the room. Dorian mumbled a curse under his breathe, then he put a hand on Marcus' shoulder. "We'll be right outside," he said. Marcus nodded and Dorian turned to go. He paused for a moment in front of Solas and stared at him with a look that could melt lead. Solas met his gaze with his usual stoic passivity, Marcus tensed as Dorian's hands balled into quivering fists, but he finally broke eye contact and stormed out of the room. As soon as the door closed behind him, Marcus heaved a sigh of relief. The two men stood silently in the room for several minutes, neither seeming to know where to begin.

"Thank you, for saving my life," Marcus finally managed to say through gritted teeth. Solas cocked an eyebrow in surprise and opened his mouth to respond, right before Marcus' fist crashed into his jaw and sent him sprawling to the floor. "And that's for tearing off my arm!" Solas stared up at him, anger flashed across his face for just a moment before his expression returned to its usual calm. He touched his fingertips to his lip and they came away red.

"I supposed I deserved that," Solas said as he picked himself up off the ground. He found a way to make even that action seem dignified. Marcus scowled and walked to the other side of the table, putting it between him and Solas. "There are a lot of good men and women outside that feel you deserve far worse," Marcus said. He folded his arms across his chest and glared, "I am inclined to agree with them." Solas bowed his head and closed his eyes.

"I am truly sorry to hear that," he said.

"What did you expect!?" Marcus asked, in exasperation. "After what you did, what you plan to do? Did you show up here expecting a warm welcome?"

"No, but I am sorry all the same. You are…were…my friend."

"We were all your friends, Solas," Marcus gestured toward the door, "Cullen, Blackwall, Dorian, Bull, all of us! What are we to you now? Just a few more ants that need to be crushed in order to bring about your perfect world?!" Solas looked up at him, his calm demeanor finally melting into one of genuine sorrow.

"You know I do not feel that way," he said, pleading. "If there was any other way…"

"There _is_ another way," Marcus walked around the table and put his hand on Solas' shoulder. "Come back to us, Solas. Abandon this mad quest and help us to make _this_ world better." Solas looked at Marcus' hand, then into his eyes, and then down at the floor, shaking his head. "I fought next to a man who believed that there was good in this world worth fighting for," Marcus continued, "I believe that man still exists, or was he just another lie?" Solas turned his back and walked to the other side of the room.

"That does not matter anymore," he said quietly, "And it is not why I am here."

"Why are you here, Solas?"

"I have come to warn you. A storm is coming, can you not feel it in the air?" He turned to face Marcus, his eyes staring through him, at some point in the distance only he could see. "My dreams have been troubled of late," Solas continued. "The spirits of the Fade are trembling. They hide themselves away and speak only in hushed whispers. The blood of the dragon is rising in the east, they say. The Dragonborn comes to Thedas, and he is bringing fury with him." Marcus stared back at him, feeling suddenly profoundly uneasy.

"That is precious little to go on," he said, "Who or what is the blood of the dragon? The Dragonborn?" Solas shook his head and held out his hands.

"I do not know," he said, "I am not sure even the spirits who fear his coming are certain. I know only that when I walk in the Fade, I now sense something I have never sensed before."

"And what is that?"

"The fear of death." Marcus frowned and shook his head.

"But spirits can die," he said, "We've seen it. We've done it."

"Yes," Solas said, "But death is not a natural part of a spirit's existence. It happens only as a result of interaction with the physical world. Those spirits who have never had such an encounter are fundamentally incapable of comprehending their own mortality, just as you would never comprehend one day turning into a rock."

"Actually, since Val Chevin I have spent considerable time pondering that eventual possibility," Marcus said wryly. Solas frowned.

"I am being serious."

"So am I." Solas shook his head and threw up his hands in consternation. Then his expression changed as a new thought occurred to him.

"You believe you have a soul, yes?" Solas asked.

"Of course," Marcus replied.

"And when you die, you believe that soul will continue to live on in some fashion?"

"I suppose I do," Marcus said frowning, not sure where Solas was going with this.

"You are comforted by the fact that some indelible part of you will continue to exist for all eternity," Solas said. "Now imagine after death, there is nothing. Your soul will be obliterated, your very essence swallowed up by oblivion. That is what the spirits of the Fade are afraid of now, oblivion. Non-existence. They believe that whoever or whatever the Dragonborn is, he can and will destroy them utterly. Imagine what he can do to this world, to flesh and bone." Marcus' eyes narrowed as realization suddenly came over them.

"You're afraid that this Dragonborn will destroy the Fade," he said, slowly walking back around the table. He leaned over it with his one hand resting on the top and fixed Solas with an icy glare. "And if he does, you won't ever be able to restore your world." Solas' eyes widened as Marcus slowly sat in the chair and crossed his legs. He had hit a nerve, and he knew it. "So tell me, why should I stop him from doing that?"

"Because this world will burn as well," Solas said emotionally, "He is not coming alone, he is bringing an army."

"Now he has an army, this thing that you don't even know what it is?" Marcus chuckled. "And where, pray tell, does this army come from? Par Vollen? The Imperium? Ferelden? Where exactly in the east…"

"Across the ocean," Solas cut him off. Marcus put both his feet on the floor and stared at Solas with a new intensity.

"There is nothing across the Amaranthine," he said. "No ship has ever made that voyage and returned."

"Perhaps that is because they found something," Solas said quietly. "Every race has legends of a land beyond the ocean. Even my people in their glory days told tales of it. If those legends are true, why should there not be people there? You know as well as I that the world does not end at the edges of the map. The Fade reflects the physical world around us, which means that the spirits are getting restless because _he_ is getting closer. They are afraid because fear follows him." Solas walked to the table and leaned over it, his arms spread wide. "Do you really think a being that inspires such terror wherever he goes, even beyond the Veil, will be in any way benevolent?" Marcus considered Solas' words and slowly stood, looking him square in the eye.

"So, what then? Shall we join forces like we did against Corypheus, and when we defeat this Dragonborn you go back to trying to destroy our world and I go back to trying to stop you?" Solas stood up straight, looking confused for a moment. Then he closed his eyes and smiled.

"I forgot how full of faith you are, how optimistic of ultimate victory, it is what inspired so many people to follow you," he said quietly, then he averted his eyes. "To tell you the truth, I have not thought that far ahead this time." Marcus just stared in shock as Solas slowly walked over to the window and gazed out at the mountains surrounding them.

"You don't think we'll win," Marcus said in amazement, "You think this Dragonborn will defeat us." Solas did not respond. "Why fight then?" Marcus asked? This elicited a small chuckle from Solas.

"Because I am Fen'Harel," he said simply, "I do not know how to submit. Neither do you, Inquisitor." Marcus was silent as he walked to the window and stood next to Solas.

"There really is another war coming then?" he asked.

"Yes," said Solas, "And I fear it will be like nothing Thedas has ever seen before."

"Do we have any chance at all?" Marcus asked. Solas smiled sadly.

"There is always hope," he said. Marcus only had to look at his eyes to know he didn't believe it. That was enough to send chills down his spine.


	2. Armada

**Chapter 2: Armada**

Aethilis stood on the deck of the _Maor Riel_ , staring out at the forest of white-sailed masts that stretched as far as the eye could see in every direction. Even after three months at sea, the sight filled him with awe. It was the largest armada in recorded history, one thousand ships carrying ten thousand soldiers and twice as many camp followers, artisans, engineers, blacksmiths, horse masters, enough men and women to fill an entire kingdom. And fill an entire kingdom, they would. The very best of Tamriel's military might was gathered here on the waves of the Eltheric Ocean. Altmer battle mages and imperial legionnaires, bosmer archers and orc berserkers, khajit scouts and redguard swordsmen, all had answered the call of Tamriel's Dragonborn Emperor to embark on the greatest campaign of conquest the world had ever seen. Aethilis had no idea what they would face once they reached that great, unknown continent, yet he felt no fear of it. The Emperor was bringing more than just an army. He was reminded of that fact every time one of the great, winged shadows fell across the _Maor Riel_. A dozen ships in the fleet were little more than massive floating decks for the dragons to land on. Aethilis didn't like looking at those ships, they reminded him that he, along with every other soldier in the army, was expendable compared to those behemoth creatures. The great beasts could cross the Eltheric in half the time it was taking the fleet, but the Emperor wanted to keep the entire expeditionary force together. Hence the floating landing pads, places for the dragons to rest and feed. Even more ships carried nothing but cattle and fodder for that very reason.

Aethilis felt a sudden wind buffet him as one of the great creatures flew overhead. He looked up just in time to catch a glimpse of the high dragon as it sailed away. The sight sent chills down his spine, it made him feel terrified and at the same time, invincible. Who could stand against them when their Emperor commanded such creatures? It had been with a hundred men and a dozen dragons that the Dragonborn had united Tamriel. Or conquered it, depending on which side of history you wanted to be on. Aethilis preferred to be on the winning side.

He had grown up listening to the tales of the Dragonborn Emperor, the son of nord peasants, a prophesied savior with the soul of a dragon. More than just a man, practically a god made flesh. He had listened, enraptured, as his father told him how the Emperor had waged a one-man war against Alduin, the father of dragons and eater of worlds. Of how the Dragonborn had crossed the Veil to the land of the dead and struck Alduin down. When he had done so, Alduin's power had passed to him, and with it the authority to command dragons. Only the strongest of their kind could rule, and the Dragonborn had proven himself the strongest. The smartest of the dragons had submitted, others resisted, and the Dragonborn hunted down the dissidents even as the provinces of the Old Empire and the Aldmeri Dominion fell to his ever-growing armies. Finally, the few remaining rebel dragons fled across the Eltheric Ocean to a land where they thought the Dragonborn could not find them. They were wrong. The collective will of hundreds of Tamrilic mages poured into scrying spells that finally found the dragons, along with the land they now called home. With nothing left in Tamriel to conquer, the Dragonborn Emperor turned his eye to the west. And now, nearly a hundred years after he stepped back through the Veil, the Emperor and his army were coming.

According to the tales, he had not aged a day.

Aethilis had only the tales themselves to rely on. Even as the general of the Summerset contingent, one of the highest ranking military officials in the Empire, he had never seen the Emperor. Aside from the Blades, the elite imperial guards descended from his original companions, and of course the dragons, few ever did. The Emperor's commands were passed down through a complex bureaucratic system. For all Aethilis knew, the man could be nothing more than a myth.

Whenever such doubts arose in his mind, Aethilis had only to look toward the fleet's flagship to put them to rest. Not a single ship in the armada was small, but the _Forerunner_ made them all look miniscule by comparison. It had no sails, and was made from as much metal as wood. Itwas the product of a century's worth of reverse-engineering dwemer artifacts recovered from the ruins of that long-dead, underground empire. Aside from the Emperor and his Blades, rumor was that the _Forerunner_ also carried several fully functional dwemer Centurions. As if ten thousand spears and seven dragons weren't enough.

Aethilis smiled as he reflected on the raw power of the army that he was an integral part of. He could not wait to see it unleashed on whatever unfortunate foes would oppose them. It was what he had prepared his entire life for, and he thanked the gods every day that he had lived to be part of something so grand. Not only be a part of it, but to be tasked with the command of his fellow altmer. That was something that would have never been possible in the Aldmeri Dominion. Magic did not run strong in his family, and so the best life Aethilis could have hoped for under the old regime would have been as a low ranking officer. That was what his father, and his father's father had done before him. But in the Dragonborn's New Tamrilic Empire, his keen mind, combat skills, sheer determination, and unquestioning loyalty had allowed him to rise through the ranks on his own merit. Now he was not merely a part of the great adventure, he would be one of the few who shaped the future.

Aethilis was snapped out of his revelry by a distant sound. It began toward the front of the fleet, far from where the _Maor Riel_ was positioned, and he had to strain his ears to hear it: a long blast of a horn. Aethilis' heart skipped a beat as the sound grew louder and louder. One by one, every ship in the fleet took up the call, the signal that their advance ships had spotted land.

Then the cheering began, tens of thousands of voices competed with the bellowing of dragons and the rhythmic hammering of swords and spears on shields. Tears welled in Aethilis' eyes as he punched a fist into the air and added his own voice to the roar. As one, the children of Tamriel raised a triumphant cry that shook the very heavens. Their voyage would be over soon, and then they would shake the foundations of the world. Aethilis wiped the tears from his eyes and stared back out at the horizon, and saw in his mind's eye the distant coast rising up out of the ocean to greet them.

"We're here," he whispered.


	3. A Dangerous Foreboding

**Chapter 3: A Dangerous Foreboding**

Marcus leaned forward in the chair, rested his elbows on his knees, bowed his head, and braced himself for the verbal onslaught. Dorian just kept staring at him as though he had sprouted two extra heads. The silence stretched for so long it became physically uncomfortable. Finally, Marcus looked up from the floor and opened his mouth to speak again, and Dorian chose that exact moment to open the floodgates.

"Unbelievable!" he exclaimed, putting his hands on his hips as he began pacing manically. "Absolutely astounding! Are you listening to yourself? Can you actually hear the words that are coming out of your mouth?"

"I know it sounds crazy," Marcus began.

"No, no, no! It doesn't sound crazy. I wish it sounded crazy, crazy would be a vast improvement over… _this_! Did that crafty imp put a spell on you? He couldn't have, I know of no enchantment that could cause a man to so thoroughly abandon his common sense! Unless…" Dorian held up a finger and his eyes went wide as he paused for dramatic effect, "Unless it was blood magic! Yes, that's it, it must be! Thank the Maker for a reasonable explanation!" Dorian collapsed into the chair across from Marcus, his forehead between his thumb and forefinger, eyes clamped firmly shut. "Maker's breathe! If I had wanted to listen to the rantings of a quack mage I would have stayed in Minrathous! To think I journeyed all this way only to witness my best friend's rapid, premature decline into senility." Marcus rolled his eyes at Dorian's melodrama and put a hand on his friend's knee. Dorian looked at it like a sick cat had just hopped into his lap. Marcus tried to put a little more steel into his voice.

"I need you to do this for me, Dorian." Dorian made a gagging sound and threw up his hands.

"What exactly am I supposed to do, Marcus? Waltz into the Magisterium and say: 'Good morrow chaps, remember that deranged elf who I've been ranting on about for the past year? Yes, the one who wants to tear down the Veil and end the world as we know it? Well, turns out he's our ally now. Against who? I don't know, some sort of dragon thing, he was rather vague on the specifics. Well he told us of course, he's actually a stand up fellow, completely trustworthy, makes a smashing pot of herbal tea to boot!'" Marcus thought for a moment and grinned despite himself.

"Actually, yes. Something along those lines would do just fine," he said. Dorian narrowed his eyes and scowled before getting up to resume his pacing, arms folded across his chest.

"A year, Marcus, a whole year I've been hammering our case into the heads of the Magisterium. Finally, I have enough support to go back and force a vote in our favor. They're ready to work with us! And not just the Inquisition, but Orlais and Ferelden as well, do you know what that means? It means the beginning of the end to centuries of animosity between Tevinter and the south! Now you want me to go back there and tell them that we are allying with the enemy that brought this coalition together in the first place? Do you know how that will make us look? You, me, the entire Inquisition? All of the progress we've made, and you're willing to throw it all away on the vague prophesying of that…that…bastard!? Why are you even listening to him? His head belongs on a pike, not whispering in your ear."

"I don't know," Marcus admitted with a sigh, "Something about what he said, the way he said it. I trust him on this."

"Trust?" Dorian said, putting real venom behind the word, "You _trust_ him?" Marcus just nodded. Dorian ran his fingers through his hair and swore. He turned as if to storm out and then paused, took a deep breathe, and with a practiced calm sat back down and looked Marcus in the eye. "Marcus, it was all his fault. Everything. The Breach, Corypheus, the war that destroyed thousands of lives, all of it was his fault."

"Corypheus was not Solas' doing," Marcus protested weakly.

"No, but that monster never would have had the power to do the things he did if Solas hadn't given him that thrice cursed orb! And as if that wasn't enough, and it should be, knowing what he plans to do, you still listen to him?" Dorian paused for a retort, but Marcus had none. Dorian put his hand on Marcus' shoulder and set his jaw. "Solas is no different than Corypheus." He paused again, "No, I take that back. He's worse."

"You don't honestly believe that?" Marcus asked with genuine disbelief.

"You are damn right I do," Dorian said as he stood, "And so does everyone else, everyone except you. Corypheus was a megalomaniac of epic proportions. He craved absolute power and was willing to crush anyone and anything that stood in his way." Dorian leaned in and pointed a finger at Marcus for emphasis, "But he never lied about what he was or what he wanted, not to himself or anyone else. Solas on the other hand plays the bleeding heart, the longsuffering martyr who only wants to right the wrong he committed so long ago, to restore the world to what it is _supposed_ to be. Never mind that he is the only one alive who even remembers that world. Not even his own people have the vaguest recollection of it in their legends! No, the only person who is suffering for Solas' actions is Solas. And his own pride, easing his own wounded conscience, is more important to him than the lives of every man, woman, and child in the world. If that is not repugnant, if that is not dishonorable, if that is not _evil_ , than I do not know what is!"

Dorian had worked himself into a passion. His face was red and the veins stood out on his neck. He turned away from Marcus and walked a few steps, his head bowed and his hands on his hips, breathing heavily.

"And he used us," he said quietly, "He used us all. How many people have already suffered and died for that foolish little man?" Dorian shook his head and turned to face Marcus, a hard look was on his face. "I will not go before my countrymen and ask them to be pawns like we were!"

Silence stretched between them. Marcus looked down to where his missing hand used to be and sighed.

"You're right," he said finally, slowly getting to his feet, "But so is Solas." Dorian shook his head and scoffed. Marcus walked toward him, looking at the ground. "Something is coming," he said, "Solas only put into words something I have been feeling for some time now." Dorian's expression shifted slightly from aggression to concern.

"What do you mean?" he asked, "What have you been feeling?" Marcus closed his eyes and bowed his head.

"A sleepless malice, a faceless enemy…whispers."

"Whispers?" Dorian asked. He now looked thoroughly worried, his earlier anger forgotten. Marcus nodded and turned away.

"They started a few months ago, in my dreams. I would wake up in the middle of the night, terrified, but not knowing why. I hoped they were just phantoms haunting me." Marcus paused and took a deep breathe. "Then I started hearing them during my waking hours, distant and scrambled, like trying to talk through a thick wall. But they've been getting louder, more insistent. Now I hear them every minute of every day, like a maddening hum in the back of my skull. The worst part is…I have no idea what they're saying, only that they're trying to warn me of something." Marcus turned and faced Dorian with a mirthless smile and shrugged. "Now the whole world looks just slightly askew, slanted, like I've had too much to drink. All I've known is that something was not quite right, and I didn't know what it was. I still don't really, but now I do know it's not just me. If it weren't for Solas…well, before he came back I really did think I was going mad."

Dorian looked at the floor silently as he processed Marcus' words, then he looked up in realization.

"The whispers," he said quietly, "They are from the Well, aren't they?" Marcus nodded slowly.

"After we beat Corypheus, the voices stopped," Marcus said. "I didn't need them anymore, so they left. Now they're back, and they came back without me asking them. They're trying to warn me, Dorian. Just like the spirits of the Fade are trying to warn Solas." Dorian walked over slowly and stood in front of Marcus.

"I do not trust Solas or anything that comes out of his mouth," he said harshly. "You," Dorian smirked and put a hand on Marcus' shoulder, "You I trust unconditionally." Marcus looked into Dorian's eyes and nodded. "Years ago, I promised to stand beside you, no matter what."

"No matter what," Marcus repeated.

"I stand beside you still," Dorian said. Marcus put his hand on Dorian's shoulder and the two men embraced. "No matter what," Dorian whispered. They stepped away from each other and Dorian cleared his throat, folded his hands behind his back and nodded professionally. "I will return to Minrathous. I will bring this before the Magisterium. I cannot promise anything, beyond that I will do everything I can. When this fight comes, I will be here, with or without them." Marcus forced a smile and smoothed non-existent wrinkles on his uniform.

"Thank you, Dorian," he said, "Tomorrow I leave for Val Royeaux to consult with the White Spire and the Divine." Dorian raised an eyebrow and grinned.

"Do give Vivienne my best," he said. Marcus chuckled and turned to leave. As he reached the door, Dorian called his name. Marcus turned and saw the hard look had returned to Dorian's face.

"This changes nothing with Solas," he said. "Before this is over, I will see him dead. That is a promise as well." There was a coldness in Dorian's voice, a dangerous, violent certainty behind his eyes. He had the look of a man who had seen his own future, and for a moment Marcus glimpsed it as well. He nodded as he opened the door and left.

"I believe you."


	4. The Eyes of the Dragonborn

**Chapter 3: The Eyes of the Dragonborn**

A'zzmar walked briskly through the labyrinthine lower decks of the _Forerunner_ , her tail twitching irritably behind her. The past three months had been arduous, she disliked being at sea. The long voyage was made somewhat tolerable by the fact that the Emperor's flagship was so enormous that the rise and fall of the waves was barely noticeable. But now the creaking and groaning of the floor beneath her feet and the walls around her reminded her that this deck was below the waterline. The very thought of it was enough to make her fur bristle.

She didn't even know why she was on this ship, on this campaign. As Viceroy, she was the highest ranking official in the Empire, aside from the Emperor himself. She should be back in the Imperial City, overseeing the administration in the Emperor's absence. Then again, the Dragonborn should still be back in Tamriel himself. A'zzmar had protested vigorously when the Emperor announced he would lead the campaign personally. Surely, she had argued, there were enough generals who were more than competent enough to lead this invasion. But the Emperor had been adamant, and when the Emperor was adamant, there was only so much protesting that would be tolerated. He would lead, and A'zzmar had assumed she would rule in his stead while he was gone.

Then the Dragonborn had announced that he would not only be taking the Blades Militant with him, he would be taking the entire order. Every single member of the Imperial Court was a member of the Blades, A'zzmar herself was the granddaughter of J'zzargo, one of the Dragonborn's original companions. With the entire order now in the middle of the Eltheric Ocean en-route to conquer a foreign continent, Tamriel itself was in the hands of low ranking bureaucrats, provincial governors, feudal lords, and the handful of dragons the Emperor had not bothered to take along. It made no sense to A'zzmar. She whole-heartedly supported the campaign, but Tamriel was still their home. To uproot the foundation that the entire Imperial government was built upon seemed like a disaster waiting to happen. There were still factions that opposed the Dragonborn's rule. Small factions, underground factions whose resistance had mostly been curtailed to propaganda and minor acts of vandalism. But in the absence of the Emperor, his inner circle, and the Empire's best generals, mages, dragons, warriors, and administrators, those factions might create an opportunity for themselves. A'zzmar feared that even as the Empire conquered new territory abroad, it risked losing some at home.

Still, her loyalty to the Dragonborn Emperor was absolute. She might not understand why he did what he did, but neither did anyone else. Who could truly comprehend the mind of a god-like being? And so A'zzmar buried her doubts and performed her duties as she always had, with precision and total faith in the Emperor's grand design.

She heard a door open behind her and a familiar scent filled her nostrils. A'zzmar stifled a throaty growl as heavy footsteps hurried to catch up to her. Ivar, Captain of the Blades Militant, slowed and fell into step next to her. He carried himself proudly, shoulders straight and broad, armor polished to an impeccable shine, his helmet carried in the crook of one arm, his other hand perpetually on the hilt of his sword. Ivar was the grandson of Vilkas, and was as fierce and skilled a warrior as his grandfather had been. A'zzmar loathed him. Like her, Ivar was one of the Emperor's inner circle, a small handful of individuals who enjoyed virtually unfettered access to the Dragonborn. They all competed with each other to curry favor with their lord and advance their stations. Unlike the others, Ivar somehow managed to maintain the façade of grace and camaraderie as he played the game. A smile was always on his face, a warm and genuine smile, so utterly convincing that A'zzmar sometimes wondered if he actually was as guileless as he appeared. He was looking at her with that smile right now, and A'zzmar had to stifle another growl.

"A'zzmar," Ivar greeted her with a friendly nod.

"Ivar," she replied coolly. She continued to stare straight ahead as they walked.

"Take it you heard the signal earlier?" Ivar asked in one of those frustratingly genuine attempts to make casual conversation.

"Obviously," A'zzmar said with an annoyed twitch of her whiskers. "It was fairly impossible not to hear it."

"Indeed it was. Exciting, isn't it? A new world, almost within our grasp."

"A'zzmar will not be considering it 'in our grasp' until our army has ground the natives into dust," she replied, this time not bothering to hide the snarl that underlie her words. Ivar scoffed and chuckled.

"The natives," he said with disdain, "Probably little more than tribesmen in huts with stone-tipped spears. Even if they're not, they might as well be. What power could they possibly have that could stand against all this?" Ivar gestured around the grand hall they were walking in. A'zzmar took a moment to glance up at one of the towering dwemer Centurions that lined both sides of the hall. Monstrous, deadly, waiting only for the hint of a threat or the word of their master to spring to life and rain down destruction. A'zzmar had to agree with Ivar, however grudgingly, it seemed impossible that whatever enemies awaited them could hope to match their strength. Still, she was ever the pragmatist. War was not won until the final foe lay dead or bent the knee.

"Besides," Ivar continued, "We have our Emperor. There's nothing in the world more dangerous than him." That was a statement A'zzmar also had to agree with. Ivar's voice had fallen to a hush as the pair stopped in front of the door of the Dragonborn's quarters. It was a plain, unadorned wooden door that would have seemed completely common if not for the two men who stood in front of it. Scarlet cloaks completely covered their armor, and strange, ornate masks hid their faces. They were two of what the Emperor's court had come to call simply 'the Nine.' No one knew who they were, what their faces looked like behind those masks, or what they were capable of, only that they were ever at the Emperor's side. A'zzmar felt Ivar stand a little straighter beside her, and her own muscles tensed involuntarily. She was afraid, Ivar was afraid, fear was the appropriate response in this situation. Neither of them spoke, they just tried not to whither under the gaze of the two mysterious guardsmen who regarded them through the narrow eye slits of those strange masks. She knew the other seven were nearby, hiding in the shadows. She could not see them, could not smell them, if she reached out with her magic, she knew she would not sense them. The Nine were like black holes in the fabric of existence. But she knew they were there all the same, and that they were watching. For several, painfully drawn out seconds, the only sound was the creaking of the _Forerunner_ around them. Then as if on cue, the two guards spoke in unison:

"Dovakiin will see you now." Their voices were hollow and had an otherworldly quality about them. They sent shivers down A'zzmar's spine and her tail thrashed in agitation. She stole a quick glance at Ivar, who was swallowing a visible lump in his throat as he nodded. Sweat was beginning to bead on his brow. He was as terrified as A'zzmar, at least she could take solace in that. They steeled themselves as the door opened and they stepped into the Emperor's chambers.

The door immediately slammed shut behind them. The room was small, hardly befitting an Emperor. And dark, so dark that A'zzmar could hold her hand in front of her face and not see it. She was khajit, her kind could see in the dark as easily as in the sunlight, but in here she could see nothing. She could hear Ivar's breathing quicken next to her, and she stepped a little closer to him. All animosity between them melted away. It would resume again as soon as they left this place, but for the moment they were equals, allies united by fear in the presence of the Dragonborn Emperor.

A small orb of light materialized in the center of the room and hovered at eye level. It was a simple enchantment, one that should have illuminated a room twice the size of the Emperor's cabin. But the light from the orb was pale and weak, barely enough to hold back the darkness that was still roiling in the corners of the room, just enough to make the walls visible. A'zzmar's breathe caught in her throat and she heard a small moan of lust emanate from Ivar. The walls of the cabin were covered with the Dragonborn's spoils of war. Armor, weapons, artifacts, tomes, all of which seemed to shimmer and pulse with an inner power and life all their own. Most of these objects had once been considered nothing more than superstitious legends, until the Dragonborn plunged the depths of the earth, rent the Veil aside, and pulled them into the light of reality. Any one of these mystical treasures in the hands of a single skilled warrior or mage would be enough to turn entire armies to flight.

And the Dragonborn didn't even need them anymore.

These objects of power that gods and men craved had been relegated to little more than museum pieces, doomed to hang on the Emperor's walls to serve as a reminder of his power to all those who came before him. There were only two objects in this room that were likely to ever again see the light of day. The Emperor's armor that he had worn when he faced Alduin, and his sword, Soulcatcher, with which he had struck the beast down. A'zzmar felt her gaze being drawn to the small altar where the legendary artifacts were displayed. They were beautiful, both wrought from pure ebony and engraved with silvery runes. What enchantments the Ebony Mail and Soulcatcher were imbued with, no one knew for certain, but there were rumors. The armor was said to render its wearer virtually invisible, and would kill any mortal who touched it, save for the Emperor. The sword, true to its name, was believed to trap the souls of its victims within its blade, bestowing their strength and knowledge to its wielder. Some said that the sword also whispered secrets to its master, secrets from beyond the Veil…

"My friends," the voice shocked A'zzmar out of her trance. It was a soft and quiet voice, barely above a whisper, but it hit her like a physical force of nature. She gasped and had to fight not to stumble backwards, and next to her, Ivar waged a similar battle. She cast her eyes about the small cabin and saw nothing, then she blinked and he was there. The Dragonborn seemed to materialize out of thin air, like a shadow suddenly made flesh. A'zzmar and Ivar immediately dropped to one knee and bowed their heads.

"My emperor," Ivar choked out.

"Lord Dovakiin," A'zzmar said with awe. It was always like this. She had seen the Emperor hundreds of times in her life, but the overwhelming feelings of awe and adoration never lessened. If anything, they became even more profound.

"Rise," the Emperor said, again in a whisper with the force of mighty wind. When A'zzmar stood it felt as though hundreds of pounds of weight rested on her shoulders. She tore her eyes from the floor and looked at him. The Dragonborn wore a long black cloak with the hood up, veiling his face behind an impenetrable shadow. He stood in the middle of the room near the orb of light he had conjured, running his fingers over its luminescent surface. How could the light not illuminate at least some of his face when he was standing so close to it? "What do you wish to say to me?" the Emperor asked. A'zzmar had to shake her head to clear it, Ivar found his voice first.

"Lord Emperor, the signal has gone up. Our advance ships have sighted land."

"I know." Of course the Emperor knew. Ivar apparently hadn't thought any further than that.

"We believe," A'zzmar began slowly, "That the entire fleet will be in sight of the coast in three days, four at the most." The Emperor didn't reply, he seemed completely focused on the orb of light that was mere inches from his shrouded face. A'zzmar and Ivar exchanged glances in the silence.

"What are your orders, my lord?" Ivar asked, "How should the fleet deploy?"

"Turn to the south," the Dragonborn said nonchalantly, as if his thoughts were elsewhere. "After seven days, turn again to the east, and sail true for another three. That is where we will make landfall." Ivar's brow furrowed.

"My lord," he stammered, "Our ships have not scouted that far south yet. We do not know what is there, what the terrain is."

"There is a city, and the terrain is acceptable."

"A city?" A'zzmar asked, her whiskers twitching. Ivar looked at her and shrugged.

"Yes," the Dragonborn said, "One of the grand cities of this new world, with high walls of stone, protected by many brave men and women with fire and their hearts and steel in their hands." A'zzmar thought she heard the Emperor chuckle. "A king dwells there, a hero of great renown." He swept his hand through the orb of light, the energy seemed to crackle and shudder as his fingers passed through it. "They shall be the first to fall." Something in the Emperor's voice made A'zzmar feel cold.

"How…" she began, the hooded face snapped toward her and she fell silent. She could feel the hidden eyes of the Emperor boring into her. Ivar took a step backward and lowered his gaze as the Emperor walked slowly toward them. A'zzmar was rooted to the ground, unable to look away from the shadow that obscured her master's face. The Dragonborn stopped barely a foot from her and held his arms out to his sides.

"Do you think these walls of wood and steel contain me?" he asked, every word fell on A'zzmar's skull like a hammer. "Do you think the eyes of the Dragonborn are blind?" The Emperor threw back the hood of his cloak and A'zzmar shuddered as his face filled her vision. That face, over a century old, did not look a day over thirty. It was framed by hair the color of spun gold that fell to the Dragonborn's shoulders, his cheeks were covered by a fine stubble of the same color. It was a brave face, a handsome face for a human, a normal face, in no way extraordinary from any other.

But those eyes…

Such a shade of blue did not exist anywhere else in the physical world. They were colder than the highest mountain peak, so cold that they burned like fire in her veins. Harder than any steel, deeper than the ocean beneath their feet. Those eyes passed straight through A'zzmar, filled her up and left her feeling empty. Her strength left her and she felt her body collapsing even as her consciousness rose above it all. She saw herself prostrated at the Emperor's feet, Ivar prone next to her, the Dragonborn Emperor standing above them both, shining like a star in the middle of a void that drew everything into itself. A'zzmar felt herself rising up, up, up, and still those blue eyes gazed into hers for all eternity.

A soft hand on her shoulder sent her crashing back into herself. Her throat was dry and she was gasping for breath, curled up into a ball on the floor of the cabin.

"Stand up," the Emperor said softly. This time his whisper did not strike her, it coddled her and made her feel warm and safe. A'zzmar stumbled to her feet, only vaguely aware of Ivar doing the same next to her. His eyes were wide, his face flushed and drenched with sweat that plastered his fair hair to his skull. The Dragonborn was standing back in the center of the room, holding the orb of light in the palm of his hand, those eyes once again blessedly shrouded in the darkness of his hood. "You will pass the word to the fleet," he said, "South for seven days, then east for three." The Emperor turned and faded back into the shadows.

"Yes, Lord Dovakiin," Ivar said. He bowed deeply and backed up toward the door, not daring to show his back. A'zzmar followed suit, her hand scraped along the wood of the door until it found the latch.

"Denerim," the Emperor's voice whispered from the shadows, A'zzmar and Ivar paused. "The city is called Denerim." The orb of light flickered and died.


	5. First Line of Defense

**Chapter 5: First Line of Defense**

Alistair put his hand over his mouth and stifled another yawn. Over his shoulder, Eamon continued to drone on and on about the details of the latest law that required his signature, something about adjusting the yearly grain quotas. Alistair had tuned him out after about three sentences, now his aged advisor's voice was little more than monotonous background noise. Monotonous, that is what his life had become, monotonous and tedious. Thirteen years he had sat on Ferelden's throne, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to remember the man he had once been. The formative years of Alistair's life had been spent as a soldier, first with the Templar Order and then the Grey Wardens. Day after day of arduous training and marching from sunup to sundown. Then the Fifth Blight struck, and he had walked from one end of Ferelden to the other and back again, carrying everything he owned on his back and fighting for his life against darkspawn, assassins, mercenaries, undead, and a number of other unpleasant monstrosities. How was it that during those times, he never felt as thoroughly exhausted as he did after a day of sitting in a chair?

The years of kingship had taken a toll on Alistair. He had lost several pounds of muscle and gained more than several grey hairs. Worry lines were etched permanently onto his face, and his mouth seemed to be ever turned down in a worrisome frown. Sometimes when he saw his own reflection he couldn't help but marvel at the strange face staring back at him. He was not a young man anymore, but neither was he old, so why did he feel so positively ancient?

Alistair snapped back to reality as the large parchment was placed on the desk in front of him. He pretended to read it over once more before signing his name and stamping it with the royal seal. No sooner was it removed from his desk than Eamon began expounding on yet another law, a pending trade agreement with one of the city-states of the Free Marches. The king barely noticed when the sergeant-at-arms opened the door and stepped discreetly to his side until the man cleared his throat. Eamon stopped his sermon and gave the soldier a disapproving glare. Alistair sat up a little straighter, grateful for the brief reprieve.

"Begging your pardon your majesty," the sergeant said, "But an Inquisition courier has just arrived with a message. He says he is under strict orders to deliver it to your grace personally. Shall I show the man in or have him wait?" Alistair shrugged.

"As much as I'm enjoying being regaled with the details of our new trade agreement with…" Alistair looked at Eamon and raised an eyebrow, "…Kirkwall?" he guessed. Eamon made a sour face and sighed.

"Ansburg, your majesty."

"Ansburg…right," Alistair felt his face flush red. "I wouldn't want to keep a messenger of our dear friend Marcus Trevelyan waiting. Show him in." The guard bowed and exited the office. Alistair drummed his fingers on the desk and looked up at Eamon. "So, what are we trading with Ansburg now?" he asked as innocently as possible. The old man gave him another scolding look.

"Sheep, your majesty," he replied. Alistair stared at him blankly for a moment.

"Sheep?"

"Yes your grace. Or wool, to be more precise." Alistair blinked slowly.

"I see. And this…sheep agreement really requires my personal attention?"

"All new trade agreements with foreign powers must be ratified by the crown," Eamon said sagely, "In accordance with article six, section forty three of the Ferelden…"

Alistair heaved a sigh of relief when Eamon was cut off by the return of the sergeant, who was leading a young man in Inquisition armor. The soldier put a fist to his chest and bowed respectfully.

"Your majesty," he said, "Inquisition Lieutenant Sutherland at your service, bearing dispatch from Inquisitor Marcus Trevelyan, who sends his compliments." Sutherland produced a sealed parchment from his pouch and handed it to Alistair somewhat stiffly. He took the letter and nodded his thanks.

"Thank you, lieutenant," Alistair said, "Do convey my regards to the Inquisitor. Sergeant, see to a bed in the barracks for our visitor." Sutherland shifted uncomfortably and managed another polite bow.

"Thank you for your hospitality, your grace," he said, "But I must return to Skyhold immediately." Alistair nodded and set the letter aside.

"Very well," he said, "But please, at least avail yourself to a warm meal before you go."

"I will that, your majesty, thank you." Sutherland bowed a third time, but instead of departing, he remained standing awkwardly where he was. Alistair looked at the sergeant, and then back to Sutherland.

"Is…um…is there anything else?" Alistair asked. Sutherland looked embarrassed and glanced from side to side.

"Forgive me, your majesty, but I was asked…ordered, to confirm you had read the letter before taking my leave." Alistair raised an eyebrow and suppressed a smile.

"Urgent then, is it?" he asked.

"I believe so, your grace." Alistair sighed as he broke the seal and opened the letter. He read it over once and, not sure he had read correctly, read it over again. His brow furrowed as he looked over the edge of the paper at Sutherland.

"Do you know what is in this letter?" he asked.

"No your majesty," Sutherland replied, "Only that it is urgent." Alistair nodded, folded the paper and tapped it on the desk thoughtfully.

"Very well," he said finally, "Please convey my thanks to Inquisitor Trevelyan and inform him I shall take this under advisement." Sutherland bowed and departed with the sergeant. Eamon turned to the king curiously as the door closed. Alistair was silent for several minutes, his eyes fixed thoughtfully on the letter in his hand. "Eamon," he said, "What is the current state of our military?" Eamon was surprised by the question and shook his head.

"I would say about one thousand troops at the ready, your highness. Perhaps double that if you call the banners." Alistair nodded.

"And our naval forces?"

"A hundred warships and two score smaller support craft, your majesty. Most are currently guarding the shipping lanes on the Waking Sea." Alistair nodded again and stared pensively at the surface of his desk. Suddenly he stood and straightened his tunic.

"Place the army on high alert and call the banners," he said, "Recall all of our ships to Denerim, immediately." Eamon's eyes went wide and his mouth dropped open in shock.

"What? Why?" he demanded.

"I do believe we are about to be invaded," Alistair responded grimly. He didn't think it was possible for Eamon's mouth to get any wider, but the old man made a go of it.

"Invaded? By whom?" Alistair handed the letter to Eamon as he walked out of the room and down the hall to his personal suite. Eamon scurried after him, reading the letter as he went.

"This doesn't make any sense!" Eamon scoffed. "We can't call the banners and redeploy our entire fleet based on this, we have no way to confirm the validity of this information." Alistair reeled on Eamon, and something in his expression made the old man stop cold. The reluctant and bored king was gone, it was a battle-hardened soldier who stood before him now. Alistair plucked the letter from Eamon's hands and held it up in front of his face.

"This is from the Inquisition," he said firmly, "Can you recall a single instance in which those people have been wrong about anything? Have they ever given us even the slightest cause to doubt the information they provide us?" Eamon straightened a bit and held his head up high.

"No, your majesty," he replied professionally, "But what this letter suggests is beyond logic. No ship has ever crossed the Amaranthine. If there is a civilization across that ocean, none of their ships have ever landed in Thedas. There is no logical reason to suspect that there is an army crossing that ocean as we speak, nor does the Inquisition offer any sound evidence beyond idle speculation!" Alistair's eyes narrowed and his lips twisted into a sneer.

"Idle speculation?" he said bitterly, "I seem to recall haughty old men dismissing the warnings of the Fifth Blight as idle speculation, and half of our kingdom burned for their skepticism." Eamon's face flushed red and he looked at the ground, momentarily embarrassed. He knew better than most how close Ferelden had come to total destruction because of the unwillingness of some to act. Still, he recovered himself after a moment and stubbornly clung to his argument.

"That was an entirely different scenario," he insisted. "The darkspawn were at our doorstep, they were not some phantom army from an unknown and far away continent that no one is even certain exists!"

"A phantom army from an unknown continent?" Alistair asked, "Like the qunari?" The rhetorical question struck Eamon completely dumb. "My history is a bit hazy, Eamon, so correct if I'm wrong," Alistair continued, "But didn't the qunari sail south from an unknown continent and conquer half of Thedas before they were pushed back?" Eamon didn't answer. Alistair stepped close to him and held up the letter again. "Something like this has already happened once, and you call it idle speculation? No, Eamon, this is not idle speculation. This is, and always has been, inevitable." Eamon looked at the letter in Alistair's hand and then to his king's face. Finally, he took a step back and bowed.

"As you command, your grace. The banners will be called."


	6. Contact

**Chapter 6: Contact**

Manewyn used to be free. He had travelled far with his clan, climbed the trees of great forests, explored the caves of mighty mountains, and ran barefoot with the other children in fields of grass that seemed to stretch for eternity. He was to be trained as a hunter when he came of age, the Keeper had said he had talent with a bow. Manewyn had been free, and happy.

Then the slavers came.

With sword and spell they laid waste to his clan. The fortunate fled or were killed outright, the unfortunate were put into chains. With iron clasped around his wrists and ankles, Manewyn had been dragged to the far-away lands of the Tevinter Imperium. There he was made to stand on a block, and was sold to the highest bidder. Two silver stags and fifty coppers had been the price of his freedom, the price of his life. Now, Manewyn could no longer remember what freedom felt like. His life was the stinking bowels of a ship, the sting of salt air, back breaking labor, and fierce beatings.

The man who had purchased Manewyn's life so cheaply was named Raker, a self-styled admiral who was in truth nothing more than pirate and a murderer. His small fleet of war galleys stalked the trade routes of the Waking Sea, and Raker had fancied himself the master of that narrow strip of water until the Ferelden navy arrived in force and disabused him of that notion. Raker and his fleet fled to the coasts of Antiva, to try their luck on the famed merchant ships that sailed from that country. There, they learned the hard way that the princes of Antiva were well invested in keeping their waters pirate-free. Only three ships remained of the twelve that sailed under Raker's colors when Manewyn first came into his service, and they found themselves drifting in the middle of the Amaranthine Ocean. Far away from land, from any shipping lanes, their prospects for the future all but faded away.

Not that any of that mattered to Manewyn. All that mattered to him at the moment was scrubbing the deck of the _Red Hag_. It would never be clean, it had never been clean in all the years Manewyn had been on the thrice-cursed vessel, but he scrubbed vigorously nonetheless. The beatings would come eventually, but Manewyn would not give the crew any excuse. They were already angry, and getting angrier. They had not been paid in weeks, food was running low, but the rum was still plentiful. Violence was becoming more and more likely as the men filled their empty stomachs with the potent liquor. Before they turned on each other, they would vent their fury on Manewyn and the other slaves. That didn't matter to him anymore either, he only hoped that the next beating he received would be the one to finally put him out of his misery.

"Sails on the horizon! Ship off the bow!" The lookout's cry sent a shock of energy through the loafing sailors. They ran to the rails and leaned over the edge to try and get a look. Manewyn didn't move, he remained on his hands and knees, dutifully scrubbing away.

"There! I see her!"

"Andraste's ass, she's a big one! Almost the size of one of them qunari dreadnaughts."

"Aye, but those dreadnaughts got no sails."

"That's a warship to be sure, can you make out the banner?"

"What's a warship doing out this far anyway?"

Manewyn's curiosity got the better of him, and he slinked silently to an open spot on the rail. The crewmen were so preoccupied that no one noticed him. Sure enough, on the horizon was the outline of a ship. It was bigger than any Manewyn had ever seen before, its sails a pure white that seemed to reflect the sun.

"Move aside!" Raker's voice boomed from behind him. Manewyn ducked his head and scurried out of the way as the barrel-chested captain pushed his way to the front of the press and raised a looking glass to his eye. After a moment he gave a long whistle.

"That is one impressive looking piece of meat," he said.

"What banner she flying?" asked his first mate, a rugged Free-Marcher named Boyle.

"Never seen it before," Raker said, "Looks like a white dragon on a red field." Boyle made a face and scratched at the stubble on his cheek. Raker continued staring at the ship for a few moments longer before lowering the looking glass and spitting into the water. "Screw it," he said, "Bring us about, we're going to take her!" A cheer went up from the crew as they stumbled away from the rail to their stations. Only Boyle remained by Raker, a frown on his face.

"That's a warship out there, Captain," he protested.

"Aye," Raker replied, "And there's three of us and one of them. We're smaller, faster, we can pick her apart if it takes all day."

"There's likely three hundred men or more on a ship that size!" Boyle said. Raker whirled on him with a snarl.

"That's three hundred suits of armor and weapons we can sell," he sneered, "And whatever cargo they're carrying to boot. You wanna get paid or not?" Before Boyle could answer, the lookout gave another cry.

"She's turning about, making straight for us!" Manewyn risked a look over the side, and indeed the mighty craft had turned toward them and was sailing straight as an arrow. Fast, faster than a ship that size had any right to be. A horn blared three distinct notes that carried on the wind. They were far too loud to be meant as a signal to the ship's own crew, but there were no other vessels in sight besides Raker's trio of war galleys. Who could they be signaling?

"That settles it then," Raker chuckled, "Cocky little buggers be wanting a fight." He turned and headed toward the ship's rudder, pushing Manewyn aside as he went. "Out of the way, knife ear!" he barked. Manewyn was swift to obey. He found a corner and curled up in it as around him men pulled at ropes and armed themselves. Minutes ticked by as the ships sped toward each other. Manewyn kept his head wedged firmly between his knees until an ear-splitting roar tore through the sky. Manewyn looked up to see every single man of the crew frozen in place, staring skyward.

"Dragon!" one of the men finally screamed. The shout snapped the others out of their trance and bedlam broke loose.

"Turn around! Turn us around!" Manewyn heard Raker shouting. Men were falling over each other, pulling at the ropes, others grabbing longbows and crossbows as still others struggled to turn the galley's ballistae skyward. Manewyn stood and looked up just in time to see the massive beast soar overhead. Arrows and bolts bounced harmlessly off its scales as it turned. The dragon roared its fury, red rose in its throat, and Manewyn instinctively covered his head as the beast belched a massive ball of fire. He looked up in time to see the flaming mass crash into one of the other ships with a blinding explosion that threw Manewyn off his feet. The effect was instantaneous, the destruction absolute. Where a moment before there had been a ship bristling with men and weapons, there was now only burning slag slipping beneath the waves.

Whatever courage the men of the _Red Hag_ possessed abandoned them. Most dropped their weapons and many began flinging themselves overboard as the dragon made another pass. This time it sprayed a single jet of flame from its maw that engulfed the third ship in Raker's fleet. It was just close enough that Manewyn could see the thrashing of burning bodies as they died. He stood transfixed, as if in a dream. A smile slowly spread across his face and a maniacal laughter burst from his lips. Better to die by dragon fire than by the fists of these savages who had stolen his life from him. Better still to know they would die as well in terror and pain.

Manewyn looked down at the deck and spied a short sword that had been dropped by some sailor. He picked it up, stepped in front of the first crewman he saw, and rammed the blade into his gut. Blood gurgled from the man's mouth, and years of pent up anger, sorrow, and fear spilled out of Manewyn in the form of a blood-curdling scream as he looked into the pirate's dying eyes. The thug slid down to his knees and collapsed face first onto the deck. Manewyn stared at the dead body, and the ecstasy of what he had done swelled over him.

Another roar snapped him out of his reverie, but it was not the roar of the dragon. It was the roar of hundreds of men. Manewyn looked and saw the warship he had completely forgotten about, so close he could make out individual helmeted heads and the spikes on its gleaming, bronze-plated prow. Arrows fell about him like rain as the warship burrowed forward, not stopping, not slowing, not preparing to board. Manewyn looked at it curiously, why…

The bronze-plated prow.

The deck lurched under Manewyn's feet as the warship tore through the _Red Hag_ like a knife through paper. He saw the deck, the sky, and then the deck again as he flew head over heels through the air. The ocean surface felt like solid rock as he slammed into it and all the breath was forced from his body. Manewyn gasped in pain and his mouth filled with water as some invisible force tugged violently at his feet. He looked up at the sun one last time before the ocean swallowed him, and smiled.

He was free.


	7. Diplomatic Immunity

**Chapter 6: Diplomatic Immunity**

Marcus tugged uncomfortably at the high collar of his red and gold-trimmed dress uniform as he lead a small column of mounted Inquisition troops down Val Royeaux's main thoroughfare. It seemed to him that half the city had turned out to line the streets. Orlesian soldiers stood at attention, men cheered and saluted, women waved and called his name, and children threw brightly colored flowers along his path. The crowd in all its finery set against the background of the gilded towers of the Orlesian Empire's capital made quite the spectacle.

"Incredible," Marcus murmured. Riding next to him, bedecked in his own formal attire, Cullen turned his head slightly and raised an eyebrow.

"How so, Inquisitor?" he asked.

"I'm just remembering the first time I came to this city," Marcus commented with a shake of his head. "The people couldn't get out of my way fast enough. Some of them actually threw stones at me, now they're throwing flowers." Cullen gave a rare chuckle.

"You were a rebel back then," the Commander said, "A dangerous heretic who threatened to overturn the establishment. Now you're a hero, the man who saved the world." Cullen shrugged. "The temper of the masses is fickle, you should know that by now. There's a chance that by the time we leave this city, their opinion of you may have changed drastically." Cullen looked up at the tall spires of the Grand Cathedral as they passed under its arch. "A good chance," he added grimly.

Marcus clenched his jaw and gripped the reins a little tighter. Cullen wasn't wrong. As far as the people in the streets knew, the Inquisition had the official backing of the Empire and the Chantry, both of which had placed mind-boggling bounties on Solas' head. Now he was here to inform Divine Victoria, the head of the Chantry and spiritual leader of all the Andrastian faithful that the most dangerous man in Thedas was under the Inquisition's protection, and their partner in fighting…

What, exactly? Marcus still hadn't worked out how he was going to explain that. An army that had yet to materialize, a villain that he couldn't even put a name or a face to, nothing but the vague promise of danger to come. And what proof did he have? Only the word of the man who had unleashed the Breach upon the world, betrayed the Inquisition, torn off Marcus' own arm, and intended to rip down the Veil and destroy the world as they knew it. That, and the uneasy feeling in Marcus' own gut, and the mad whisperings in the back of his mind. Vivienne was never going to believe him.

 _Victoria_ , Marcus reminded himself as he dismounted in the courtyard of the Grand Cathedral. _The Most Holy, Divine Victoria_. She had been elevated to the Sunburst Throne in no small part due to the Inquisition's efforts. While he never considered them to be friends, Marcus at least felt there was a mutual respect between them. Yet he harbored no illusions that their personal history guaranteed Victoria's support. As Divine, she had been as calculating and cold a strategist as she had ever been. Three revolts had erupted in response to her coronation, on account of her being a mage, and all three had been crushed with ruthless efficiency. She had reinstated the Circles of Magi and the Templar Order, and kept both factions on a short leash that was fastened securely to the Sunburst Throne. She was without a doubt one of the most powerful people in all of Thedas, and one that was not afraid to use her power liberally. Marcus truly had no idea what the outcome of this meeting would be. If the Inquisition lost the Chantry as an ally, Orlais and Ferelden would likely follow suit. Then they would be rebels and heretics once more.

The Inquisition honor-guard remained standing at attention in the courtyard as Marcus and Cullen climbed the wide steps to the Cathedral's doors.

"We're going to have to kiss her ring again, aren't we?" asked Cullen with obvious distaste. Marcus snorted a chuckle in response.

"If she helps us, I'll lick her whole bloody arm," he said. Cullen looked at him without the slightest hint of amusement on his face.

"Are you sure you still want to do this?" he asked. Marcus nodded.

"We need the Chantry's support in this," he said. "The kingdoms of Thedas must face this threat together, and the Chantry is still the best vehicle we have to promote that kind of unity. We have to convince Viv… _Victoria_ , that Solas' warning has merit." Cullen made a face as though he had swallowed something unpleasant.

"Of course, I just wish I was convinced it had merit."

Marcus didn't have time to reply before they reached the top of the stairs and were met by a group of brightly attired priests and lay-sisters. They escorted Marcus and Cullen through the Cathedral to the throne room. They halted at the doorway and a herald announced their presence.

"Presenting the right-honorable Ser Marcus Trevelyan of Ostwick, Inquisitor, Herald of Andraste, Lord Steward of Skyhold, and the Honorable Ser Cullen Rutherford of Ferelden, Knight-Captain of the Templar Order, Seneschal of Skyhold and Marshal of the Inquisition."

The two men looked at each other and Marcus shrugged at the titles as Cullen failed at suppressing a scowl of annoyance. The two were then ushered into the presence of the Divine. She sat on the Sunburst Throne arrayed in all the finery and symbols of authority her station demanded. She was flanked by several attendants, one of which Marcus looked to with a smile and a nod. Leliana returned the nod and favored Marcus with a small smile of her own, but he observed that there was no warmth in it. Cullen noticed as well and glanced at Marcus out of the corner of his eye. He looked around the chamber at the dozen Templars standing at attention along the walls. Nothing but an honor-guard for the Divine, but something about the tension in their shoulders gave Marcus pause. He looked up at Victoria perched on the Sunburst Throne, her face a stoic mask. Marcus and Cullen bowed deeply.

"Most Holy," Marcus said respectfully. Victoria gave a small snort and waved her hand dismissively.

"Let us dispense with the formalities and titles, my dear." Marcus frowned and raised an eyebrow.

"You always insisted that formalities and titles were important," he said.

"Indeed they are," Victoria said, "But in our present circumstances, I would prefer to get to the point. You come to Val Royeaux with dire news I believe?"

"Indeed," Marcus said cautiously, "A situation has arisen that must be discussed. Perhaps in private?" Marcus asked, glancing at the Templar guards lining the room.

"So your letter stated," Victoria said. "Perhaps you are here to discuss why the traitor Solas is in your custody, still breathing, and totally bereft of chains?" Marcus tensed and felt a cold, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He looked at Leliana, she was standing at the Divine's left hand. She met his gaze for a moment and then looked at the ground. Marcus felt his heart sink.

"You knew!" Cullen said, "We rode all the way here, and you already knew!"

"Of course I knew, my dear," Victoria said with a cold smile. "Did you learn nothing from that debacle at Val Chevin? Spies are everywhere, and as I'm sure you know, my spymaster is the best." Cullen glared at Leliana and made to take a step forward, but halted as the gauntleted fists of the Templars gripped their swords. Marcus stepped in front of Cullen and held out his hand.

"Please, Vivienne, just hear me out. Solas came to us under a flag of truce, he came back to warn us, he didn't have to, but he did. Thedas is in terrible danger."

"Danger?" Victoria asked, her eyes going wide. "Why I certainly agree, Thedas has been in danger for some time. In danger of the machinations of Solas."

"No!" insisted Marcus, "There is something else, something is coming!"

"And what might that be?"

"I…I don't know!" Marcus stuttered. "An army, a conqueror, a being of power known as the Dragonborn."

"The dragonborn?" Victoria asked with a raised eyebrow, "An army you say? And pray tell, how do you know of this army? This conqueror?" Marcus felt his arms go limp at his sides as he bowed his head.

"Solas told me," he whispered. Victoria nodded slowly and leaned forward. "But I have felt it as well!" he said, "The whispers, the voices from the Well, they've come back, they're trying to warn me!" Victoria sighed and tapped the arm rest of her throne.

"Marcus, my dear, you are unwell," she said with what might have been genuine compassion. "Solas is quite powerful, I believe he may have ensorcelled you." Anger flashed in Marcus' eyes and his hand balled into a fist.

"I am a mage," he said hoarsely, "I am not under any enchantment!"

"That remains to be seen," Victoria said as she stood. "I am sorry Marcus, but until we can ascertain what Solas' designs are, you and Commander Cullen will remain here under the protection of the Chantry."

"What!?" yelled Marcus.

"You cannot do that!" insisted Cullen.

"I can, and I will," said Victoria. "At this moment, a regiment of Templars, Seekers, and Circle mages are en-route to Skyhold to take custody of Solas. When they return, we will untangle this web and Solas will stand trial for his crimes. Until then, you shall remain here." Marcus felt numb. He couldn't believe what was happening, she had not even given him a chance to explain.

"You are overstepping your bounds, Vivienne!" Cullen said defiantly, "He is the Inquisitor! The Inquisition has diplomatic immunity, as agreed upon by treaty of all the monarchs in southern Thedas! You cannot detain us here!"

"Am I a monarch of Thedas?" Victoria asked with an edge of steel in her voice. "The Inquisition retains its authority as defenders of the faithful, a responsibility which rests ultimately with the Chantry! Marcus Trevelyan has demonstrated that he is unfit for duty, as have you, Commander, by not relieving him sooner!"

Cullen shook his head in bewilderment and looked to Marcus, but he was no longer listening. The whispers in the back of his mind had grown to a roar. He sank to his knees and gripped his forehead.

"Marcus!" Cullen rushed to his side, taking him by the arm and lifting him back to his feet. A look of concern flashed across Victoria's face for an instant before her calm reasserted itself.

"Guards," she said, "Escort them to their chambers, and send for a healer to tend to the Inquisitor." Several Templars stepped forward and Cullen went for his sword with one hand while trying to prop Marcus up with the other. The Templars stopped short, some of them half-drawing their own swords.

"Sir," one of them said, "Please." Cullen looked at the man's face, his expression softened, and he released his grip on his hilt.

"Help me," Cullen said grimly. The Templar nodded and slid Marcus' other arm over his shoulder. As they carried him toward the door, Marcus' head suddenly snapped up. He broke free of Cullen and the Templar and spun to face Victoria.

"You will rue this!" Marcus yelled. The Templars jumped back in alarm and bared their steel. Flame was flickering in Marcus' open palm and his eyes flashed with an insane focus.

"Marcus, don't!" Cullen cried. For a tense moment, the Inquisitor and the Divine locked eyes across the room. Templars stood poised with swords raised, channeling their power into their blades as the flame in Marcus' hand grew hotter. Marcus took a deep breathe, closed his hand, and extinguished the flame.

"You will listen to me," he said intensely. "The time will come very soon when you will listen to me." A Templar moved forward to take him by the arm, but Marcus halted him with a glare, turned, and strode out of the room. The guards followed him warily, their swords down but not sheathed. The last stayed by Cullen, who paused before leaving and looked over his shoulder.

"I hope he's wrong," Cullen said quietly, "But what if he's not?" Cullen left with the final Templar, leaving Victoria and Leliana alone in the throne room. The two women exchanged glances as Victoria silently sat back down in the Sunburst Throne. Marcus' eyes still shone bright in her mind, and she felt a dangerous feeling crawling up her spine.

Doubt.


	8. Liberators

**Chapter 8: Liberators**

Strong hands shook Manewyn back to consciousness, and for a moment he feared it had all been a dream. He felt the smooth wood of a ship's deck beneath his cheek, the beating of the sun on his back, familiar scents of tar and canvas filled his nostrils. Sensation slowly crept back into his body. He was soaked to the bone, and could not open his eyes from the burning of the salt water. His stomach felt as though it were about to burst, and his whole body ached as if he had just received ten of Raker's beatings. No, it had not been a dream, yet somehow he was still alive.

A slight nudge to the ribs was all it took to make Manewyn gag and vomit up half the ocean onto the deck. He spent several moments coughing uncontrollably and vigorously rubbing his eyes. When his breathing finally slowed and his vision returned, the first thing he saw was a human woman staring down at him. She was beautiful, but hard and fierce looking, a warrior. Her head was wrapped in a scarlet turban, she wore a steel breastplate and a curved sword at her hip. She looked down at Manewyn through dark eyes framed by coppery tanned skin with a look of curiosity and mild surprise. She spoke to him in a language that was totally foreign, and Manewyn could only stare up at her and shake his head. Her face wrinkled in obvious frustration as she said something else over her shoulder, and another figure stepped into view.

Manewyn shrieked in terror and shuffled backward on his hands and feet until his back was firmly pressed against the ship's rail, and for an instant he pondered throwing himself back into the ocean. Next to the woman stood a six foot tall lizard, a tail half the length of its body swishing back and forth on the deck. It was dressed in full armor and cradled a spear in powerful clawed hands. It took a step forward, its yellow eyes with vertical slit pupils blinking rapidly. It leaned in and flicked its tongue out, tasting the air, its lips curled back to reveal rows of razor sharp teeth. Manewyn tried to curl into an even tighter ball and visibly shuddered from the proximity of the giant reptile. His reaction elicited a round of laughter from several voices, and he peaked out from between his arms to see the woman playfully punching the lizard-man in the arm. With some effort he tore his gaze away from the strange pair and took stock of his surroundings.

He was not the only survivor. He recognized Boyle and several crewmen from the _Red Hag_ huddled together a few feet away from him, all of them looking as scared and perplexed as Manewyn felt. There was a score of guards surrounding them all in a half circle. Humans of every size and description, and a few more of the lizard-men as well. Not a single one of them appeared to be paying any attention to Boyle and the others, they were entirely focused on Manewyn. They were all looking at him with the same look of curiosity and thinly veiled shock he had first seen on the turbaned woman's face. They spoke to each other in their strange language, some of them pointing, nodding, or shaking their heads in obvious fascination.

A loud voice barked a command from the back of the crowd, and all conversation immediately ceased as the guards parted for a figure in armor that was black as coal. Manewyn didn't need to get a good look at him to recognize a figure of authority, and he instinctively lowered his gaze. The figure stopped in front of him and crouched down. Manewyn felt a strong and calloused hand take him firmly under the jaw and lift his head. His eyes went wide and a small gasp escaped his lips, he was staring into the face of another elf.

Or was he? The man in front of him had the characteristic ears and sharp features of Manewyn's people, but in other ways was just as alien looking as the lizard-men. His skin was the color of ash and his eyes were a deep red, several shades darker than the fiery hair that was pulled back in an elaborate top-knot. There were several tattoos on his face, but none of them looked even vaguely like the Dalish vallaslin markings Manewyn had on his own. The slave and the soldier stared intently at each other in silence for several long moments before the dark elf spoke.

"Can you understand the words I am saying to you?"

Manewyn understood. The accent was heavy, but the warrior was speaking Elvhen. Manewyn swallowed hard and managed to respond in a shaky voice.

"Yes," he said, "I understand your words." The dark elf stood bolt upright, and there were audible gasps and murmurs from the guards. The red eyes were wide, looking at Manewyn with a strange new intensity, measuring him.

"You are mer," he finally said. Manewyn's brow furrowed curiously and he shook his head.

"I'm an elf," he said dumbly. The commander, for that is what Manewyn was now certain he was, offered a thin smile.

"We are also sometimes called elves in my homeland." The dark elf extended his hand, and Manewyn stared at it suspiciously before slowly taking it and letting himself be pulled to his feet. The commander took a step back and folded his arms across his black breastplate, looking Manewyn up and down curiously. "I wonder how it is you speak our dialect," he said slowly, "When these others speak no human tongue we know of. Tell me, kinsman, what sovereign do you and these humans fight for? What kingdom do you hail from?" Manewyn looked toward Boyle and the others, who were watching the exchange with frightened and uncomprehending eyes. Manewyn's face twisted into a sneer.

"I do not fight with them!" he growled. The ferocity of his words seemed to startle the dark elf, and he looked at Manewyn with a raised eyebrow. Manewyn took a breath and tried to calm himself, remembering he was still a prisoner speaking to a commander surrounded by dozens of armed soldiers. Still, he could not quite keep the quivering resentment out of his voice. "They fight for no sovereign, they are pirates and murderers. I was their slave, as were the few others of my folk on those ships." The dark elf's eyes narrowed, and Manewyn met them with a hard stare of his own. "I'm glad you killed them."

"Slave," the dark elf repeated, as if the word were foreign to him. "You were a slave to these men?"

"Yes," Manewyn nodded. The expression on the dark elf's face morphed from incomprehension to horror, and then to utter disgust. He turned to his soldiers and spoke in their foreign tongue, jabbing a finger at Manewyn as he spoke. The soldiers began muttering among themselves in agitation, anger, some of them raising their weapons. Manewyn took a step backward, fearing that he had revealed too much. The dark elf spoke a single word with emphasis and made a swift, slashing motion with his hand. Manewyn gaped in surprise as the soldiers lunged forward and slew the other survivors of the _Red Hag_ with shocking speed and ferocity. It happened so fast, none of them even had time to scream before their bodies were being dumped unceremoniously over the side. Some of the soldiers spat into the ocean after them. The dark elf watched the entire proceeding with a cool detachment, and when it was over he issued another command, and most of the soldiers saluted and dispersed.

"What is your name, kinsman?" he asked. Manewyn had to think for a moment, it had been a long time since anyone bothered to ask his name.

"Manewyn," he said finally.

"Well met, Manewyn, I am called Dirdath. Consider yourself a guest on this ship." Manewyn's brow furrowed in confusion.

"Am I not your prisoner?" he asked. Dirdath looked at him as though it were a silly question.

"You are not a soldier or a sailor, you were in thrall to these men against your will. Why would we make you our prisoner?" Manewyn just stared at Dirdath with his mouth hanging open, at a loss for words. "Of course," Dirdath continued, "It will be several days before we land, so until then I'm afraid you must stay aboard." Dirdath gave a wry grin, "Unless you wish to swim for it?" Manewyn shook his head. Dirdath chuckled and clapped Manewyn's shoulder.

"Be at ease, my friend. You will be well looked after." Dirdath turned to the soldiers who had remained nearby and issued an order in their common tongue. _"Set course back to the fleet, I have a feeling General Aethilis and Viceroy A'zzmar will be interested in our new guest. Take him below, give him some clean clothes and something to eat."_ Dirdath turned back to Manewyn and continued in Elvhen. "I must attend to my duties, we will speak again soon." Manewyn nodded and watched as Dirdath turned on his heel and walked away, soldiers following in his wake. Then he gulped and retreated a bit when he realized he had been left alone with one of the lizard-men. The reptile blinked at him rapidly and jerked his head for Manewyn to follow.

They descended down two more decks until reaching a third that looked to be living quarters for the crew. The soldier motioned Manewyn to sit on an empty bunk as he rifled through a dresser. Manewyn sat down warily, keenly aware of the stares directed his way by passing sailors and soldiers. At length his guard returned with a bundle of clothing. He handed them to Manewyn before disappearing. The clothes were simple and well made, a cotton shirt and tanned breeches with supple leather sandals. Compared to the soaking rags he had been wearing, they felt like a king's wardrobe. The lizard guard returned just after Manewyn finished changing, holding a steaming bowl and half a loaf of bread in one hand and a tankard in the other. The bread was hardtack, tough and flavorless, but the stew was divine. Chunks of fresh meat floated in thick brown gravy alongside carrots and potatoes, and the tankard was filled with cool, watered down wine. Manewyn ate and drank greedily, it was the best meal he had eaten in years. He slowed his chewing when he became aware of the lizard-man watching him intently. He paused with a mouthful of bread and stew.

"Gerlach," the lizard said. Manewyn wasn't sure if it was a word or just a guttural growl. Then the lizard pointed a clawed finger at his own chest, "This one is called Gerlach." Manewyn's eyes went wide in surprise.

"You speak Elvhen?" he asked around a mouthful of food. Gerlach shrugged and nodded.

"Some small words," he said. "There being many tongues in Tamriel, good to know some small of each." Manewyn nodded and swallowed the food in his mouth and chased it with a sip from his tankard.

"I'm Manewyn. Tamriel…is that the land you are from?"

"Yes," Gerlach nodded, "Far, far across big water. Your land is being called what?"

"Thedas."

"Thedas. Is being one tribe, or many?"

"Many tribes, kingdoms."

"Keen-doms," Gerlach sounded out, and curled his lips back in what was probably a smile. He held out his hand and wiggled his fingers. "Tamriel once being many keen-doms. Fight much." He made a fist, "Now being one keen-dom. Strong keen-dom. Dovahkiin make strong keen-dom, make Thedas one keen-dom also." Manewyn nodded slowly, not quite sure what he was hearing. Gerlach was silent for a while longer and Manewyn finished his meal, set the empty bowl and tankard aside, and sat back in the bunk. Gerlach was still watching him, his head tilted to one side. "Gerlach's father's father was being a slave, being born a slave." He hissed, showing his teeth. "Many Argonians being born slaves for long time." Manewyn nodded in understanding, piecing together Gerlach's meaning from his broken elvhen.

"What happened?" he asked, "How did your people, Argonians, how did they free themselves?"

"Dovahkiin come," Gerlach said. "He being strike chains off slaves, say no more slaves and masters in Tamriel, only people in Tamriel." He reached out and put a scaly hand on Manewyn's knee, and strangely Manewyn did not feel the urge to pull back. "Being do same for Thedas." Manewyn was still not entirely sure what Gerlach was talking about, or why, but understood enough that whatever it was, it was important. Gerlach turned at the sound of heavy boots descending the stairs and stood up at attention as Dirdath entered the cramped quarters. Manewyn sheepishly rose to his feet as well, but Dirdath motioned for him to sit back down as he perched on the crate previously occupied by Dirdath.

"How do the clothes fit?" he asked, "And your meal, was it satisfactory?"

"They fit well, and the food was delicious, thank you." Dirdath made a face and chuckled.

"I'm glad you think so. So, tell me of your homeland, Manewyn." Manewyn was surprised by the request.

"What do you want to know?" Dirdath shrugged.

"Anything. Tell me of the lands, the people, and their customs. Who rules these lands? Do they fight among themselves? What are their soldiers like?"

"I'm afraid I don't know very much," Manewyn admitted. "I traveled some distance with my clan before…" he trailed off and choked up a bit, Dirdath patiently waited. "We kept to ourselves mostly," he continued, "But I know a little bit from tales I've heard from others, most of them I believe, some not. I can tell you more about our people, the elves, but I was young when I was taken, so I don't even know as much as I should about us." He bit his lower lip nervously. "I'll gladly tell you what I know, and answer any questions as best I can, I don't know that any of it will be very interesting I'm afraid." Dirdath leaned forward with his hands folded under his chin, and there was a strange gleam in his red eyes that made Manewyn feel suddenly uncomfortable.

"Please," he said gently, "Tell me everything."


	9. In the Beginning

**Chapter9 In the Beginning**

" _It has been too long since the world has known true change. The mortal races have forgotten their Maker, and his wrath. They must be made to remember, you must do this."_

" _I have slaughtered men and gods, and all Tamriel bows to me. The last vestiges of the old orders are dying out. I have made the world in a new image, there is nothing left to conquer."_

" _There is always something left to conquer."_

" _Yokuda is long since swallowed by the sea, and Akivir is a dead land. There is nothing."_

" _Where did Parthunax and his followers flee to when you demanded fealty of the Dovah? They did not become ethereal, nor did they cross the Veil. They yet live, in a land far beyond where mighty Yokuda once stood. A land steeped in magic and forged by sword, and spear, and the iron fists of warrior kings. It is there you must go."_

" _I gave Parthunax my word I would let him go in peace."_

" _And let him go in peace, you did. Your oath is fulfilled."_

" _How will I find this land that has so long remained hidden?"_

" _A host of mages and wizards attends you, and the blood of dragons flows in your veins. Turn their eyes to the west. When they find the dragons, they will find your new world."_

" _To cross the Eltheric and subdue an unknown continent, my life will be spent long before this is accomplished."_

" _Have you so little faith in the Maker? The people of Tamriel are as a sword in your hand, as you are a sword in the hand of the Maker."_

" _I know my Maker, he is chaos and the void."_

" _He is will and deed. He will preserve your life, so long as you bring his will and deed to the mortal races. And as the long years pass, so will your power grow. You will walk in the footsteps of Talos, and surpass him, and ascend even unto godhood."_

" _So long as I bring war and fire unto innocents who are not my enemies?"_

" _Innocence is life's greatest illusion. War and fire are your agents of change, it must be so."_

" _For the pleasure of the Maker?"_

" _For the salvation of your soul. You know well the price of the power granted you by the Daedric Princes, and they will come to collect. Only ascension can save you from them, and you can only achieve this by following the path the Maker lays before you. Tell me, sweet child, is not your soul of more worth to you than all the lives in all the world? Will you so readily endure eternity in Oblivion so that they may live in comfort but one more day?"_

" _No, dear mother, I fear for my soul in the hands of the Daedra. I will bring fire and sword and the will of the Maker to all corners of the world, even unto its sundering. In my voice they will hear the music of life."_

" _And what is the music of life?"_

" _Silence, my mother."_


	10. Cornered

**Chapter 10: Cornered**

"Could you repeat that number for us, Teyrn Corban?" Alistair asked as his brow furrowed in concern. He sat in the war room of the Royal Palace, flanked by Eamon and Teyrn Fergus of Highever, who exchanged worried glances. The grizzled Teyrn of Gwaren stood before them, face flushed with exhaustion. He and his men had force-marched two days and a night through the Brecilian Forest to reach Denerim, yet a frantic energy shone in the old warrior's eyes and animated his movements.

"There were three thousand spears if there was one," he said, leaning over the table to point out the location on a map. "After we set out we hugged the coast, would have marched right into them and been destroyed had I not sent outriders ahead. I didn't believe their report at first, thought the lads must be exaggerating, so I rode ahead myself to investigate." He ran a hand through salt and pepper hair as he shook his head, and a hint of awe crept into his voice. "They were still landing troops by the hundreds, and constructing siege engines on the beach. And their fleet, Maker's breathe! I've never seen so many ships in one place in all my life, and huge they were! Twice the size of anything we have, at least. There could well have been three thousand more men still on those ships, waiting to land."

"So they outnumber us two to one," Fergus muttered, "Possibly more." Corban looked at the younger man and straightened a bit.

"That may be, but we Fereldens have never concerned ourselves with being outnumbered," he said with considerable pride. He leaned forward and returned his attention to the map. "Your majesty, if we march now we could still catch them on the beach, before they move inland and establish a foothold. We would have the advantage of the terrain, and drive the bastards back into the sea before they even finish kicking the sand from their boots!" Alistair looked at Corban's hopeful face and sighed.

"I'm afraid that is not possible, old friend," he said. Corban raised an eyebrow and looked to the king and Eamon for an explanation.

"Our scouts have reported," Eamon began slowly, "Another force to the north, of similar size and disposition as the one you describe, Teyrn Corban. They made landfall on the peninsula south of Alamar and have already begun moving inland at considerable speed. There can be no doubt their target is Denerim." The old man paused and his eyes drifted downward. "They will be here in two days, three at most." Corban's face fell as Alistair slowly got to his feet and leaned over the map.

"One army from the north, one from the south," he murmured. "They will encircle Denerim on three sides, and their navy will cut us off from the sea." He straightened and looked at each man in turn. "We will be surrounded." Silence hung over the four men for a long time before Fergus finally spoke up.

"We can disengage," he said hopefully. "Withdraw into the Bannorn, make them follow us and fight when and where we choose."

"Abandon the capital?" Corban said with a furious shake of his head. "Let it fall into the hands of these foreigners without a fight? We cannot do such a thing!"

"We are not even at full strength," Fergus countered. "The contingents from West Hills and Edgehall have not yet arrived, and we have heard no word from Arl Teagan of Redcliffe!"

"My brother is coming," Eamon said defensively.

"I do not doubt it," Fergus said, "But will he and the others get here in time? Will they be able to get here at all, or will they run into this massive force as Teyrn Corban almost did? And even if they do, to challenge either one of these armies on the field would require our entire force, and Denerim would be left to the mercy of the other army which would march unchecked through the city gates, or worse, bypass it entirely and strike us from behind."

"We should trust in Denerim's walls," Corban insisted. "The darkspawn could not take this city, and neither will these usurpers!"

"They would have taken it had the arch-demon not been slain when it was," Eamon pointed out. "And you saw these warriors, Corban. This is not a horde of mindless darkspawn, this is a disciplined invasion force, well equipped with massive numerical superiority. They are not here to ravage and destroy, they are here to conquer."

"And even if the walls do not fall, how long can we hope to fend them off?" Fergus added. "Six months, a year? They will patiently wait outside the city gates, getting fat off the land while the whole city starves to death, then all they need do is step over our emaciated corpses!" Fergus clenched his fists and shook his head. "No, our only hope is to retreat. To defeat an army of this size, we must do what King Maric did against the Orlesians. Make them chase us and pick our spots to strike. Ferelden will not stand or fall with the fate of one city, even if that city is Denerim."

"We could send out messengers," Eamon said hopefully, "Call for aid." Corban and Fergus both scoffed.

"Who would come?" Corban asked. "Orlais? Nevarra? The Maker-hexed Imperium?"

"The Inquisition will come," Eamon said with certainty. "It was they who warned us of this invasion, and it was not long ago they helped save Ferelden." Corban chuckled mirthlessly.

"The Inquisition is not what it used to be, Eamon," Fergus said with a bit of venom. "They are no longer legion, your brother helped make sure of that with the Val Chevin Accords."

"They were not legion when they drove the Templars and Apostates from the Hinterlands!" Eamon said, ignoring the veiled slight.

"The power of the Inquisitor is spent," Corban said wearily, "His mark and his arm are gone, his companions scattered to the wind."

"If he is so powerless, how is it that only he was not blind to this threat from across the ocean?" Eamon demanded. No one had an answer, and silence once again fell on the room.

"This bickering gets us nowhere," Alistair finally said as he turned his back to the map and paced slowly to the stained-glass window. The other men looked to each other in silent agreement.

"What are your orders, my king?" Corban asked. Alistair took a moment before responding.

"There is no victory here," he said quietly. "I will not yield Denerim to foreign invaders without a fight, nor can I stake Ferelden's future on the outcome of just one battle, especially a battle in which we are so overmatched." He turned and faced the three sullen men. "Send your messengers Eamon, send them to everyone. The Inquisition, the Chantry, Orlais, the Imperium, even the Qunari. Everyone. These armies mean to subdue all of Thedas. They may have started with Ferelden, but they will spread elsewhere, of that I have no doubt. Perhaps our salvation will ultimately lie in lands far away. For the time being, withdraw the army to the Bannorn, rendezvous with Arl Teagan and coordinate the defense of the kingdom. I will remain here with five hundred volunteers and sell Denerim dearly." Three mouths hung open as the nobles stared at each other.

"No," Eamon finally said with a firm shake of his head. "I'm sorry your majesty, but we cannot allow that." Alistair raised an eyebrow at his advisor.

"You are the king," Fergus added, "It was you who united Ferelden during the Blight. It is you the people follow. If Denerim falls, Ferelden will endure. If you fall…" Fergus trailed off.

"Ferelden is not one man," Alistair said sternly, "King or no."

"With all due respect, your majesty," Corban said, "Sometimes it is."

"You have heard now from your advisor and two of your nobles," Eamon said, "And I have no doubt the rest would agree. The nobility can overrule any order of the king."

"If you have time to convene a Landsmeet before the battle is joined Eamon,"Alistair said sternly, "I invite you to do so and formerly overturn this order. If not, my command stands. You and Teyrns Corban and Fergus are to take the army and withdraw!"

"I respectfully refuse, your majesty," Eamon said.

"As do I," added Corban.

"And I," said Fergus. Alistair's face contorted in anger.

"You realize I can have you all arrested?" asked Alistair with a threatening gleam in his eye.

"That you can," Eamon agreed, "Nonetheless, I will remain here."

"This sword serves the king," Corban said as he drew his blade, "Whether it be on the walls or in the dungeon, the choice is your majesty's." Corban dropped to one knee and bowed his head, offering his sword up on outstretched hands. Fergus and Eamon followed suit, and Alistair felt the anger ebb and then die inside him. He looked at his loyal warriors, and his heart swelled with love and pride.

"Rise, Lords of Ferelden," he whispered. His men obeyed, and Alistair walked to each one in turn and sheathed their swords.

"Send out riders to all corners of Thedas. Find Teagan and the others and tell them to come to Denerim with all speed, and prepare the city for siege." The three men bowed and as one turned and exited. Alistair remained hovering over the map, and his hand slid to the hilt of his sword.

A red day was coming.


	11. Rules of Engagement

**Chapter 11: Rules of Engagement**

General Aethilis sat in his command tent, flipping through the pages of Captain Dirdath's report. The dunmer elf stood stiffly in front of him, hands folded neatly behind his back, his face devoid of expression. Aethilis glanced up at him over the top of the papers in his hand.

"Some of the information you gleaned from this liberated slave, Manewyn, makes for quite the interesting read," he said before idly tossing the report on his desk and leaning back in his chair. "Although strategically speaking, it is mostly irrelevant."

"I respectfully disagree, general," Dirdath said professionally, "Long term, I believe his presence in our ranks and the information he provides will prove valuable in ways we cannot yet predict. However humble his origins, he is for the moment, rather indispensable." Aethilis harrumphed and his fingers made a pyramid in front of his face as he nodded for Dirdath to continue. "It is my understanding," Dirdath began slowly, "That after we subdue this kingdom, it is to be made a province of the empire, with full citizenship granted to its subjects?"

"That is true," Aethilis acknowledged.

"And our strategy includes securing local allies whenever and wherever we can."

"Yes," said Aethilis, his brow furrowing.

"Then surely the general can see the benefit of already having one such local ally. One who, incredibly, speaks our own merish dialect, as well as the common tongue of these lands? We cannot hope to interact with these people, forge new relationships, barter or negotiate while there remains the barrier of language between us."

"There are no doubt other elven kin in these lands who will serve just as well," Aethilis countered.

"Indeed," agreed Dirdath, "But they are not here, Manewyn is. It would be foolish to assume these elven clans will give us their allegiance based solely on our shared blood. How long did the mer of Tamriel fight amongst ourselves, until the Dragonborn, praise his name, united us all in common cause? Courting the native elves will prove much easier if it is one of their own telling our stories." Aethilis tapped his fingers on his arm rest, rolling Dirdath's words over in his mind. The young captain had a point. And there were other reasons to keep Manewyn close at hand. Discovering the elves of Thedas shared a common language with those of Tamriel was no small thing. The implications were staggering. Aethilis had dutifully forwarded Dirdath's report to the _Forerunner_ , a response had come almost immediately expressing the keen interest of the Blades. If the Blades were interested in Manewyn, then so was the Emperor.

"Your point is taken, captain," Aethilis finally said. "But you know our laws. He is not a prisoner of war and he has broken no law of the Empire. He is free to leave, we cannot constrain him."

"He has expressed a desire to stay," Dirdath said. Aethilis' eyebrows arched in surprise.

"Has he now?" Dirdath shrugged.

"He has been a slave for half his life, he does not know where to find his clan, or if any are still alive and free. He has nothing, and nowhere to go. What is more, he has made a few fast friends among my troops, probably the only friends he's had in years. Of course, I am more than willing to induct him into my regiment and look out for him. Should the high command be in need of us, you need only send word." Aethilis smiled thinly at Dirdath's use of the word 'us' and slowly nodded his head.

"Very well, Dirdath," he said slowly, "I will attach your regiment to my division and you will report directly to me until further notice. Manewyn is your responsibility. Should we have need of you, we will send word. You are dismissed." Dirdath saluted smartly and turned on his heel to leave. Aethilis allowed himself a grim smile at the captain's back. Here was a man, a fairly low ranking officer, who had just made himself a valuable asset to the campaign. And he had done so using logical and well-thought arguments. Clearly, Dirdath did not intend to remain a mere captain his entire career. "Captain Dirdath," Aethilis called as the man reached the tent flap. Dirdath paused and looked over his shoulder. "Your ambition has been noted." The dark elf stood up a little straighter, turned to face Aethilis, and bowed slightly before backing out of the tent. He knew what those words meant. Aethilis would be watching him. Closely.

Aethilis took advantage of the rare moment of solitude, stretched his long arms over his head and stepped outside his tent, savoring the cool night air and admiring the imperial encampment that spread before him. Tents stood in straight rows along a perfect geometrical grid. Mess halls, blacksmiths, stables, armorers, even merchants. The camp had everything, including a twelve foot wooden palisade complete with multiple gates and firing platforms. The whole thing went up in less than an hour after a full day's march, and it would come down before dawn the next day just as quickly, to be stored and moved to the army's next location. The camp was a microcosm of the Empire itself: Order, unity, efficiency.

But tomorrow night they would not need the entire camp, tomorrow night they would spend in Denerim. The city lay only a few hours' march to the southwest. They would arrive in the morning, and swiftly crush any resistance. For the Empire, for glory, for the Dragonborn.

One by one, Aethilis' staff officers began arriving, along with his counterpart from the southern army, General Sulla. Sulla was a native of Cyrodiil, and like Aethilis had served from the ranks on up. He was short and stocky, but built of solid muscle. He had a gruff manner and unlike Aethilis, was not gifted with the virtue of tact. Still, there was no denying his keen mind and fighting spirit. If not exactly friends, the two men respected each other and worked well together. Sulla's army was camped a few miles away, and in the morning they would meet before the gates of Denerim and encircle the city.

The officers partook of refreshments and made small talk until the tent flap swept open and in strode Viceroy A'zzmar, flanked by several Blades officers. All conversation immediately ceased as Aethilis and Sulla, along with their officers, bowed deeply before the most powerful woman in the Empire. Her feline eyes took them all in coolly as she acknowledged their sign of respect with a nod. A'zzmar made directly for the table on which a map was spread, and the generals and their staffs gathered around her.

"We have already failed one of our objectives," she said without preamble, "We have not achieved total surprise. An army awaits us at Denerim." The announcement was met with murmuring by the assembled officers as Aethilis and Sulla exchanged uneasy glances.

"How is that possible?" Sulla asked, "We encountered only a handful of ships on our approach, and all those were destroyed or captured."

"It is unlikely that they would have had time to muster their forces after we landed," added Aethilis, "Even if their scouts reported our movements."

"The 'how' will be uncovered and dealt with in due course," A'zzmar said with a wave of her hand, "Your orders remain the same: You will take Denerim."

"How large is this army we are to face?" asked Sulla.

"Thirteen hundred," said A'zzmar, "More if local militia has joined their ranks." Sulla scoffed and chuckled.

"Still a mere pittance," he said disdainfully. A'zzmar fixed him with a stare and her whiskers twitched.

"Do not underestimate them," she said sternly, "A force half that size could hold those walls against a superior force. The advantage still lies with us, but be wary. If our advance stalls at the very first opposition, it would be most…unpleasant."

"Understood, Madame Viceroy," Sulla said with a slight bow.

"Understand this also," A'zzmar said, taking in the crowded tent with her stare. "Denerim is to be taken swiftly and as intact as possible. There will be no siege, no drawn out house-to-house fighting. There will be a swift and decisive attack, and you will have all the power of the Emperor's army at your disposal. Tales of how one of the great cities of this continent was taken so easily will spread, and our enemies will fear us long before they see our banners approaching their own cities. This is to be a message to all of Thedas that the new order has arrived." The officers murmured their assent, but Aethilis and Sulla exchanged puzzled glances.

"Could the Viceroy clarify," Aethilis said slowly, "How exactly we are to assault this fortified city and keep it 'intact' at the same time?" A'zzmar's eyes narrowed and her tail flicked in agitation at the question.

"The walls and the gates must be breached," she said tersely, "But you are to take every precaution to do as little damage to the city proper as possible. This is to be our de-facto capital for the foreseeable future, it must continue to function, and its citizens must be brought into the Empire's fold. They are much more apt to accept our control if their houses are not rubble and their loved ones are not lying dead in the street. Before the assault tomorrow, I want every man and woman in this army to know that they are to engage only armed resisters, and leave the civilians be. Furthermore, any soldier caught looting, raping, or generally terrorizing the population will be executed, without exception. Is that understood?" Aethilis looked around the gathering and nodded. The imperial army would carry out their orders to the letter. "There is one more thing," A'zzmar added, "Before the assault begins, the King of Ferelden is to be offered very generous terms of surrender. Publicly, before the walls of his city, so that his entire army will hear it." Confused glances and mutterings darted around the tent. Sulla stroked the stubble of his beard and shook his head.

"From what I understand, this king of theirs is a renowned warrior and leader of men. A hero, not just in his own kingdom, but throughout the whole continent. He will not accept the terms, however generous."

"Of course he won't," she replied with a throaty chuckle, "That is not the point. This offer, like your attack, are a message. A message to any that would oppose us that they will be spared and their authority left intact, if they only kneel. These people will understand that the Empire will have order and will bring peace with either an open hand or a sword. The choice will be theirs, and the Emperor believes, as do I, many of these so-called brave warriors will bend the knee when faced with the alternative of fire from the sky." Sulla grunted his agreement, and many of the other officers nodded in understanding.

"Your point is taken, Madame Viceroy," Sulla stated, "But how will we deliver these terms of surrender for all to hear if we do not speak their language?" A'zzmar offered another chuckle that sounded for all the world like a growl, and she fixed Aethilis with her strange khajit eyes.

"I do believe general Aethilis has at his disposal a rather intriguing solution to that conundrum, is that not so, general?" Aethilis felt a lump rise in his throat, but he kept his composure and offered a thin-lipped smile.

"I do indeed, Madame Viceroy."


	12. Death From Above

**Chapter 12: Death from Above**

It began well before dawn, the sound of rhythmic drumming in the distance. Hour after hour it grew steadily louder, more insistent, until the warriors of Ferelden realized it wasn't drumming at all. It was feet, thousands upon thousands, steel shod, marching in perfect time. Their persistent beat drowned out all other noise, their impact sent shivers through the soil and up the very towers of Denerim. The sound took on a life of its own, all encompassing, a harbinger of doom, the entire world. Now, as the early morning mist finally evaporated, the sound ceased and Alistair stared down in awe from the parapets across the wide open fields at the army before his gates.

He had read all the reports, had mentally prepared himself for the odds he was up against. The preparation was not enough, the numbers on paper did not do the beast before him justice. The enemy was grouped in large phalanxes and columns of perhaps a thousand strong each. The dawn sun glinted off of shields and armor of every imaginable color and design, from simple chain mail to elaborately gilded works of art. Foreign banners snapped proudly amidst a forest of spears, the most prominently featured was that of a brilliant white dragon on a blood red field. From time to time, one or two of the massive columns would shift, adjusting its position on the field ever so slightly as massive siege engines were brought up into place, their crews already efficiently loading them. Every so often from somewhere in that vast fortress of flesh and steel a horn would sound, prompting a deafening war cry and the banging of shields so loud it made Alistair's teeth rattle in his mouth. For over an hour this went on, the horns blaring more frequently, the once incoherent howls of response morphing into war chants in an incomprehensible language. Now and again individuals and small groups from the front line would break ranks and pace in front of their comrades like caged beasts, stopping occasionally to bang a sword or spear against the shield of another. The human waves were rippling now, and Alistair could feel their berserker rage and battle lust rising from across the field. Their energy strained against the orders of their superiors, craving for the one word that would break their chains and set them loose.

Alistair looked at his own defenses which just yesterday had looked proud and imposing, they now looked meagre and almost pitiful. He could feel the fear radiating off his own troops just as he felt the energy from the invaders. Still, they bravely held their positions. These were proud soldiers of Ferelden, Ash Warriors, and battle mages from the Jainen Circle, veterans of the Civil War and the Blight. They would not shirk in the face of any enemy. He had to believe that.

Alistair played out the battle scenario in his mind. The enemy would unleash a barrage from their siege engines at Denerim's walls. But the walls were thick, and although portions might crumble, it would not collapse. Then they would have to advance over nearly a mile of open ground, all the while under fire from Ferelden's own artillery and archers that would thin their numbers. An army that size could not charge all at once, they would come in waves. Whatever battering rams they had brought would be ineffective. Denerim's gates were of iron-banded solid oak, with portcullis' forged in Orzamar. They would shatter their rams before they breached the gate. That would leave them one option, they would have to come over the walls. That meant ladders, men coming up one at a time. Their superior numbers would count for nothing. Maybe his brave soldiers could keep them from gaining a foothold on the battlements, maybe his own archers and catapults would thin their numbers enough, and maybe they would grind themselves to dust against Denerim's walls. Maybe…

"Sire," Eamon said next to him, snapping Alistair back into reality. Clad head-to-toe in armor with a sword on his hip and a shield on his back, the old man looked every inch the noble warrior he had been in his youth. Eamon nodded gravely toward the field, "Riders," he said simply. Alistair followed his gaze, and indeed a small column of horsemen had broken away from the main force and was riding for the main gate. A white flag of truce flew side by side with the white dragon banner. Alistair nodded grimly and made his way to the gate house and stood where he was quite visible as he watched the riders approach. His attention fixed immediately on the three men at the head of the column. One of them was tall and wore gold-plated armor that was all elaborate curves, and an equally ornate open-faced helmet on his head. The man next to him wore an engraved steel breastplate with greaves and braces, and a war skirt of metal-tipped leather strips. A bright red-feathered crest ran down the middle of his helmet to the nape of his neck. The third man pulled his attention away from the other two, for his plainness was startling compared to their magnificence.

He was garbed only in a simple tunic and breeches, and handled his horse extremely awkwardly compared to the other two. He was very small and slight of build, and only as the column drew to a halt in front of the city gates Alistair realized with shock that he was Dalish.

The two commanders sat on their horses, staring up silently at the walls before them. They exchanged a few words before the man in the golden armor trotted his horse a few feet closer, and motioned the Dalish man to follow. Up close it was easy to tell the young elf was nervous, but he did as he was bade. There were a few more seconds of silence before the gold-clad warrior spoke in a booming voice loud enough to be heard clearly. Alistair recognized the language, although he did not understand it, the gold commander was speaking Elvhen. Suddenly the presence of the Dalish made sense, and he shouted up a translation of his master's words, not quite as commandingly, but loud enough to be clearly understood.

"We seek to speak to King Alistair of Ferelden, lord of these lands and marshal of the city of Denerim." Alistair stepped forward and looked down grimly.

"I am he," he said, "And who are you that come bearing arms to the shores of Ferelden?" The golden man answered, the Dalish translating his words as he spoke.

"Generals Aethilis and Sulla greet you in the name of the Dragonborn Emperor of Tamriel, long may he reign, who by divine right hereby claims sovereignty over the Kingdom of Ferelden and all its environs, and all kingdoms and nations of the continent of Thedas. In his magnanimity, the Emperor offers the King of Ferelden and its people the following proposition: No one need die here today. Ferelden's soldiers may keep their weapons, its nobles their lands, and its king his throne, to govern Ferelden as he sees fit according to Imperial law as a vassal to the Dragonborn Emperor, to whom alone he will be answerable. Ferelden may prosper as a province of the Empire, with all its subjects granted equal protection under the law. All that is required for a peaceful resolution is for King Alistair to bend the knee here before the representatives of the Emperor, and for him and his nobles to swear an oath of fealty to the New Tamrilic Empire and the Dragonborn Emperor. What say you to this?"

Alistair felt the eyes of his soldiers on him, heard their faint mutterings. Without a word, he turned to a nearby archer, took the woman's bow and a single arrow from her quiver. Drew it back to his cheek, and fired.

The arrow hissed through the air and planted itself firmly in the ground a few inches in front of the general whose words the Dalish elf had been translating. Neither man nor horse so much as twitched, the general merely lowered his gaze to the arrow and stared at it with bemusement. To Alistair's surprise, a defiant cheer rose up from the troops along the wall. Alistair grinned mirthlessly as he handed the bow back to the archer. As the cheering died down he became uneasy at the sight of the golden general looking directly at him, and smiling broadly. He took off his helmet, and hair as golden as his armor fell to his shoulders. Alistair blinked in surprise and his mouth dropped open. He was an elf. He began speaking again, the even more flustered Dalish resumed translating.

"General Aethilis takes your response to mean 'no,' as was expected. He compliments your flair for the dramatic." Aethilis' smile faded into a grim expression, and he spoke much more quietly so that his words were barely audible. The Dalish elf looked up at Alistair almost apologetically. "He promises that what is about to come…it will be over quickly." With that Aethilis put his helmet back on and haughtily turned his horse. The column followed back to the enemy lines. Halfway there, Alistair saw him raise his sword over his head, and another deafening roar tore through the air. Before the column even made it all the way back, the first boulder slammed into Denerim's walls.

Death rained down from the sky. Boulders, shrapnel, and canisters of liquid fire fell all around him with unbelievable accuracy. It seemed as though not a single shot fell far or short of its target, they all landed right on top of Alistair and his defenders. Men screamed and wept and tried futilely to find cover. Alistair did not know which way was up and which was down, the world had become a spinning nightmare of terror and pain. He did the only thing he could do, he hunkered down and prayed the next missile would not be the one that hit him.

As quickly as it had begun, the bombardment ceased. Alistair was not sure how long it had lasted, it could have been hours or minutes, all that mattered was that the sky was clear once again. Alistair picked himself up and stumbled around disoriented, his ears ringing and head swimming. As the world snapped back into focus, the sounds of dying men, the stench of blood and burning flesh assailed him. His men were picking through the rubble, trying to clear pathways, douse fires, and get the wounded off the battlements.

"Shore up!" he shouted, "Archers to the front, get the wounded off these walls now! I need damage reports and casualties! Eamon…" Alistair looked around and realized Eamon was nowhere to be seen. Then he remembered when he had gone down to the gatehouse, his advisor had remained on the command platform. Alistair looked up to where it was and felt his stomach sink. All that remained was a pile of rubble.

Alistair took the stairs two at a time and began shifting through the stone and wood, desperately searching for his old friend.

He found him. Eamon's eyes were still open, staring lifelessly up at the sky, his head thrown backward at an unnatural angle. His arms were splayed out in the form of a cross, a jagged beam of wood thicker than a man's arm stuck out from his chest, covered in blood.

Numbness took hold of Alistair as he stared at the body of the man who had once been like a father to him. A man who, for the past thirteen years had been at his side from sunup to sundown. Guiding him, comforting him, chiding him, always there. Alistair had never once thanked him, or told him he loved him.

"Sire! King Alistair!" Fergus stumbled up the stairs, gasping for breath, face and armor smeared with blood and ash. He heaved a sigh of relief when he saw Alistair. "Thank the Maker you're…" Fergus took a few steps closer and stopped short when he saw Eamon's body. "Oh no," he whispered. The two men stood in silence for several seconds before Fergus spoke quietly but firmly. "Your majesty," he said, "The enemy is forming up for assault. We need you on the wall."

"He's gone," Alistair mumbled, "How will I know what to do now that he's gone?" Fergus grabbed Alistair by the shoulder, spun him around and backhanded him hard.

"You are the King!" he shouted, "Your soldiers need you, your people need you!" Alistair stared at Fergus in momentary shock. He touched his fingers lightly to his stinging cheek and looked at Eamon again. He knelt down and closed the old man's eyes, then stood and drew his sword, eyes shooting death.

"To the wall," he said grimly. Fergus drew his blade and followed. As the two men jogged back to the front, they heard another war chant being carried from across the field in time with the rhythmic banging of drums. A single word, repeated over and over again, a word every man, woman and child in Denerim could hear and understand, it was in the common tongue of Thedas. Alistair felt an involuntary chill run down his spine.

"Death! Death! Death!"


	13. Chapter 13 One Day

**Chapter 13: One Day**

Alistair stared across the field at three phalanxes were forming up for advance, two in the front and one behind, three thousand men in all, and his eyes narrowed in suspicion. He had expected waves, but given the numbers at the enemy's disposal, this seemed decidedly small. He noted that there were no battering rams in evidence, although he could see many ladders being held between the ranks. Three thousand men scaling his walls on ladders, it seemed almost too easy.

"Ready catapults and ballistae, fire as soon as they're in range," Alistair commanded, "Mages and archers will loose on my mark."

His orders were repeated down the line as soldiers took up their positions. Archers nocked arrows, mages channeled energy into their staves, cranks on the war machines turned, stones and bolts placed in their carriages. Across the field the three phalanxes lurched forward like a massive living organism, soldiers marching steadily in perfect step, shields locked, still chanting their death song. Alistair raised one hand in the air and held it there, keeping his eye fixed on an invisible line on the ground. Once the invaders crossed it, they would be in range, and Ferelden would rain down its own wave of death. Distance was swallowed up quickly, a few more yards, just a few more.

Suddenly, and without any noticeable signal, the phalanxes halted just short of Alistair's invisible line. The chanting and beating of drums ceased almost instantaneously, and all three thousand warriors dropped to their knees and bowed their heads. For the first time since the horde appeared, there was total silence from across the field. Not a single horn or drum blared, not a single voice was raised. A ripple spread through the massive army as it took its cue from the advance forces and each soldier knelt. Alistair slowly lowered his arm, surrounded by the confused mutterings of his soldiers as they all stared across the field at the once boisterous invading army kneeling quietly, solemnly.

A sound broke the silence, a boom louder than thunder reverberated through the air and made the soldiers of Ferelden shudder and instinctively cover their ears. It seemed to come from everywhere at once and echoed inside Alistair's skull. Beneath its awesome force, Alistair was certain he discerned words being spoken in a language that somehow made his blood curdle.

Silence reasserted itself, the invaders remained kneeling and the defenders began fidgeting nervously. Fergus stepped up next to Alistair, looking as confused and awed as everyone else.

"What's that?" Alistair turned toward where Fergus was pointing and peered intently at the horizon. Three shapes in the sky, little more than specks at this distance, growing in size as they sped toward Denerim. Four more appeared from the east toward the ocean. Their massive forms became more discernable the closer they got, and Alistair felt the blood suddenly drain from his face.

"Maker's breathe," he whispered, "That's impossible…" His army was now shifting, starting to break, fear taking control as panicked cries rose into the air.

"Dragons!"

Roars ripped through the air as the seven beasts soared over the invading army and descended on Denerim. Bedlam broke loose as streams of flame engulfed the defenders who were practically falling over each other to get out of the way. Screams of terror combined with screams of pain as hundreds of men died in an instant. Alistair watched in horror as the dragons wheeled overhead and came swooping down at the towers. Jaws and talons flashed, ripping catapults and ballistae from their anchors with ease. The beasts lifted the massive machines into the air and dropped them right on top of Ferelden's soldiers, crushing dozens. Over the din of soldiers driven mad with fear and the rushing wind of flapping wings, Alistair heard horns sound from across the field. He looked away from the dragons just as the enemy stood and began marching forward again at double-time pace. Only then did the realization firmly strike home.

The enemy commanded dragons.

Alistair suddenly went numb. His arms fell limply at his sides and he stared blankly ahead as the screaming and the chaos around him faded into mundane background noise. He watched as two of the dragons landed in front of the gates. The entire wall shuddered as they sank their talons into the metal and stone and pulled backward, their wings beating furiously. Alistair dropped to one knee as the massive gates were torn right off their hinges. Slowly he stood as the dragons began to ascend once again, arrows and spears bouncing harmlessly off their scales. As quickly as they appeared all seven beasts reeled and sped back the way they had come. Alistair followed them with his gaze until they were specks once more, then he looked down just as the first wave of attackers reached the wall.

The front two phalanxes split off to either side as the third rushed straight through the massive breach where the gates once stood, like a mighty river bursting through a hole in a dam. A few brave defenders still stood on the wall, hurling stones and shooting arrows that were mostly deflected off of raised shields. Through the shroud that hung over him, Alistair vaguely heard Fergus and Corban shouting orders to draw swords.

The ladders were coming up. Spiked firmly at the base of the wall, solitary warriors perched on the very top rungs as they were raised. Too calmly, Alistair took a step back, raised his sword, swung his shield from his back onto his arm, and waited. The ladder and the warrior perched atop it crested the wall. Alistair locked eyes with the man. He clutched the top rung with one hand, the other hand empty, outstretched, palm open. Alistair lowered his shield slightly and cocked his head to the side. Then there was an explosion and he was engulfed in blinding white light.

He came to lying flat on his back, his vision blurry, feeling like he was drunk. He looked to his right and to his left as his vision returned. Enemy soldiers were pouring over the wall in every direction, and Alistair's warriors all seemed to be in a daze, down like he was, or struggling to their feet to get their bearings. The attackers surged forward, cutting down any Ferelden in their path with fury. It was a slaughter. Most of the defenders died without even lifting a sword to defend themselves, those that did were quickly overwhelmed. Alistair saw Fergus lying on his back get run through by three swords at once. He saw a fireball slam into Corban's shield, throwing the Teyrn over the wall to his death. It was all over in moments. The ramparts were covered in sprawled, dead bodies. All of them wore Ferelden uniforms.

Alistair rolled over onto his stomach and stared out across his city. Soldiers flooded through the streets. Here and there small skirmishes were being fought, but the battle was over. They had not just been defeated, they had been utterly destroyed. His eyes fixed on the royal palace that his father had fought so hard to gain, and that he had lost. The royal banner with its twin rampant Mabaris was being slowly lowered. In its place, the white dragon of the invaders rose and triumphantly snapped in the wind. Alistair turned his eyes skyward, and noted that the sun had not even reached its afternoon peak.

 _What is about to come, it will be over quickly._

Alistair felt the sharp point of a sword at the nape of his neck. He closed his eyes and bowed his head.

It was over.


	14. Balance of Power

**Chapter 14: Balance of Power**

Nearly two weeks in Val Royeaux and Marcus was beginning to go stir-crazy. He was not being poorly treated, far from it. His 'cell' was a luxurious apartment usually reserved for visiting dignitaries or members of the nobility. His meals, served thrice daily, were of the finest delicacies fit for any royal banquet. His sheets and clothes were changed and washed daily, and he had at his disposal all of the gilded benefits the Grand Cathedral had to offer. Still he was a prisoner, and he knew it.

He was confined to his room, which was warded against magic and guarded at all hours by Templar Knights, save for one hour a day in which he was permitted to walk the cathedral grounds with an armed escort. No one spoke to him beyond trite pleasantries, he had heard nothing from Victoria, Leliana, or Cullen. For all Marcus knew, Cullen could have been confined to the room next door, but he may as well have been on the other side of the Frostbacks. Somewhere in the wide world beyond his four walls, Marcus knew that events were being set in motion that could not be undone, and he was absolutely powerless to intervene. The stress it caused was reaching unbearable proportions, and in the darkest part of his mind he began to fear he would remain locked in the Grand Cathedral until the day the Dragonborn brought the entire roof down on his head.

So when one of his Templar guards curtly informed him that he had finally been summoned by the Divine, Marcus was far too thrilled to be out of his prison to even inquire as to the reason, not that the guard would have given him an answer. He strode briskly through the winding hallways with two Templars at his back, and at an intersection he met Cullen, being similarly escorted.

"Marcus!" Cullen exclaimed as he stepped quickly to his side and put a hand on his shoulder. "Are you alright?"

"Yes Cullen, I am well," Marcus replied calmly as Cullen's guards fell into step in front of the pair and Marcus' continued following a few paces behind.

"Thank the Maker," Cullen said, visibly relieved. "You had nearly fainted last I saw you. I kept asking how you were but they wouldn't tell me, they didn't bloody tell me anything at all."

"Don't worry Cullen, I'm alright. Can I assume they didn't tell you why we're finally out of our cages either?" A brief sneer cracked the veneer of Cullen's professionalism and he shook his head.

"No idea," he said, "But I imagine whatever the reason, it bodes ill."

"Of that I have no doubt," Marcus said grimly. Presently they came not to the great doors of the official reception chamber as before, but normal looking unadorned ones. They were ushered in to what looked like a private study. Victoria was seated behind a simple wooden desk, vacantly staring at a piece of parchment, one of many stacked in front of her. Leliana stood next to her, face grim, and avoided eye contact with her onetime friends. Victoria motioned them forward, and as they approached Cullen managed a stiff bow, but did not take his eyes off the Divine or her Left Hand. Marcus remained standing upright, perfectly still, face a blank slate. He noticed that Victoria was dressed quite plainly without any garishness or symbols of her authority, which was odd. This was a woman who in the past had insisted on going into battle dressed in attire that Marcus always thought was better suited for a royal ball. And she looked tired, very tired, and out of her element for the first time since Marcus had met her.

"Leave us," Victoria said absent-mindedly, and the Templars bowed deeply and left the room. The four of them stood in silence before Victoria finally sighed, set the parchment she was reading delicately to the side, folded her hands on her desk and looked firmly at Marcus and Cullen.

"Ferelden has fallen," she said simply. Cullen looked at Marcus, who blinked, but otherwise showed no reaction.

"Ferelden has fallen," Cullen repeated, "How?"

"It was invaded," Marcus cut in before Victoria could answer, "By a vast army from the east. From across the ocean." Marcus' words were cold and Victoria fixed him with a glare which he met without flinching. The stare-down was brief, and Victoria relented, averting her eyes and nodding.

"Quite so," she said, a rare admission of defeat evident in her voice. Cullen's brow furrowed and he took a step forward, holding out a hand as if he was trying to grab a tiny dust mote flitting in front of his face.

"We've not been here two weeks," he said, "When we left Skyhold, I'm quite certain Ferelden was not at war. How could any army conquer a kingdom that size in such a short of time?"

"They do not yet occupy the whole country," Victoria said, "Although for all intents and purposes the war is over. Ferelden's army is destroyed, King Alistair is either a prisoner or dead, the remaining garrisons and holds will likely not offer any further resistance." She leaned back in her chair and after a pause added quietly, "Nor should they."

"According to the reports we began receiving a few days ago," Leliana cut in, "The invaders made landfall in two groups, both only a few miles away from Denerim. They marched directly there and took the city, they knew exactly where and how to strike." She hesitated for a moment before shaking her head. "The battle lasted only one day."

"One day!" Cullen exclaimed. He ran his fingers through his hair and his hand came to rest at the back of his neck, he looked utterly bewildered. "Denerim is one of the most heavily fortified cities in all of Thedas. Its walls have not been breached in a hundred years, and you're telling me that it fell in a _day?"_

"Actually," Victoria said grimly, "It was more like an afternoon." Cullen looked at her wide eyed, at a loss for words.

"Half of Ferelden's army was defending the city," Leliana continued, "The other half arrived with Arl Teagan two days later to find their capital surrounded and occupied. There was no way they were going to retake the city, so they withdrew to Redcliffe. The enemy pursued them and forced them to make a stand behind the walls of the castle." Leliana lowered her eyes, "They did not last much longer than Denerim." Cullen was pacing now, shaking his head and mumbling curses.

"I just don't believe it," he said. "In a few days these invaders marched across Ferelden and took its two grandest cities, both of which were defended by three times as many soldiers as they should have needed. I just can't believe it!" Leliana and Victoria exchanged glances.

"My dear," Victoria said, surprisingly sympathetically, "They did not take Redcliffe." Cullen looked from Victoria to Leliana in confusion.

"What do you mean?" he asked, "You just said they took Redcliffe."

"No, I didn't," Leliana said. She hesitated before closing her eyes, her normally unflappable composure faltered. "They took Denerim. They destroyed Redcliffe."

"Destroyed?" Cullen asked as if the word was foreign to him.

"They levelled it," Victoria said grimly, her eyes fixed on her desk as she slowly shook her head, as if she didn't quite believe her own words. "Castle and city, burned everything, put every man, woman, and child to the sword. When the fires died down, they spread ash and salt and laid enchantments over the earth so that nothing will ever grow there again. Not a stone is left on a stone." Victoria looked from Cullen to Marcus. "There is no Redcliffe anymore."

Silence hung over the room like a death shroud.

"All those people," Cullen whispered. He collapsed into a nearby chair and put his head in his hands. "An entire city, wiped off the map. How is such a thing possible?" Victoria and Leliana exchanged another glance.

"Dragons," Leliana said quietly. Cullen's head snapped up, both he and Marcus stared intently at the spymaster.

"What did you just say?" Marcus asked.

"Dragons," Leliana repeated. "They cleared the walls of Denerim and breached the main gate, allowing invaders to march unopposed right up and into the city." She paused and gritted her teeth. "Apparently, they were utilized far more extensively at Redcliffe. It seems this enemy wanted the capital more or less intact, Redcliffe did not merit the same consideration."

"The Dragonborn," Marcus said softly, all eyes turned to him. "Their leader, he is called the Dragonborn, this must be why. He can bind dragons."

"That's impossible," Cullen said as he got back to his feet.

"It's not impossible." Marcus looked at each person in the room in turn. "You know of what I speak, all of you were there." Cullen, Leliana, and Victoria all looked at each other, each of them remembering that fateful day Marcus had called down a high dragon to help vanquish Corypheus.

"That was Myhtal's doing, not yours," Leliana said firmly.

"A spirit," Victoria added, "A powerful one, but a spirit nonetheless."

"Marcus, you said yourself you were only able to summon that beast because Mythal allowed it," Cullen said. "No mortal could do such a thing on his own. Mythal was a…"

"A god?" Marcus cut him off and Cullen stared back blankly. Marcus slowly turned to Leliana, and then Victoria. "Or a spirit, call her what you will. But she was an ancient being of power so immense that as far as any of us in this room are concerned, she was a god. An old god, who could bind a dragon." He turned to Leliana. "You said dragons, plural. Do you know how many?" Leliana looked at Victoria pensively, and the Divine nodded.

"There were at least seven at Denerim," she said, "Possibly more at Redcliffe." Cullen's mouth dropped open as Marcus slowly nodded, folded his arms behind his back and began pacing in a half circle around Victoria's desk.

"Seven," he repeated calmly. "Mythal was an old Elven god, who had bound to her the will of one, solitary high dragon." He came to a halt and fixed each person in the room with a hard stare. "Whoever leads this army against Thedas has at least seven. Think of the power that would require." Marcus paused for effect, "Our enemy is a god."

Silence hung in the air once more. One by one, expressions changed ever so slightly as each of them came to grips with the reality of what they were facing.

"He was right," Cullen said, "Solas was right, about everything." Marcus nodded, and he noticed Victoria's face twist into a sneer.

"This is what is going to happen," he said with authority as he walked right up to Victoria's desk and looked her square in the eye. "If you know what happened, so does Empress Celene. I imagine you are going to hold council with her and the court very soon." Victoria nodded slowly. "You are going to convince her of the absolute necessity of calling her banners. Everyone from the chevaliers' right down to local militia. Orlais _must_ be prepared for war, and it must be prepared soon. The Chantry must use its influence wherever it has it, the people of Thedas must stand together, or we will fall one by one. Cullen and I are returning to Skyhold, today, right now. We will muster what forces we can, and try to discover all we are able about this enemy. I will consult with Solas…"

"No!" Victoria said and shot to her feet. "Solas is at this moment being escorted to Val Royeaux by a regiment of Seekers and Templars to…"

"No, he's not," Marcus said evenly. "Because Solas is under Inquisition protection, and the Inquisition does not, nor did it ever, answer to the Chantry. Blackwall and Bull are in command at Skyhold, and they will not give Solas up."

"The High Seeker has a writ from my own hand demanding…"

"Perhaps you did not hear me the first time," Marcus said as he leaned in closer. "The Inquisition does not answer to you. If you want Solas, you will have to fight us for him, and that is not a fight you want, Most Holy, especially not now, and it is a fight that Cassandra is not willing to start. Am I right?" Victoria's hands balled into fists and she shot daggers at Marcus with her eyes.

"You are walking a dangerous line, my dear Trevelyan," she growled, "The Inquisition is not what it was when Corypheus was the enemy. You would do well to remember that."

"You are right, of course," Marcus said with a slight bow, "But you and Thedas need now as much as you did then. Do you know why?" Victoria's eyes only narrowed as Marcus straightened invisible wrinkles on his tunic and smiled at her mirthlessly. "Because we have the one man in Thedas who saw this coming, and he happens to be a god himself." He nodded curtly to Victoria and Leliana in turn and headed for the door, Cullen falling into step behind him. "I trust we will work well together now as in the past for the good of the people," Marcus said casually, "We will be in touch." He paused before he opened the door and looked over his shoulder. "And one more thing," he added, "It is _Inquisitor_ Trevelyan, your Holiness."


	15. Old Friends, New Allies

**Chapter 15: Old Friends, New Allies**

 _One year later…_

Marcus parried the thrust and plowed his shield into his opponent's. He might as well have been pounding a bolder for all the good it did. Bull didn't even flinch, and a sweep of the leg and a hip-check later, Marcus was flat on his back with the tip of the qunari's sword under his chin.

"Sorry boss," Bull said with a grin, "You're dead again." Marcus rolled his eyes and batted the sword away.

"So how many times is that this afternoon?" he asked.

"I stop counting after one." Bull reached his hand out and Marcus grabbed it and let himself be pulled to his feet.

"Don't waste your strength trying to bowl over a bigger opponent like that," Bull said. "Unless you're in a shield wall, all you'll get is steel between your ribs. Focus on technique, not strength. Like this." Bull demonstrated a move in which he slipped the bottom edge of his shield under Marcus' and flipped it upwards. Marcus repeated the maneuver several times with varying degrees of success until his arm burned and he waved Bull off. The two retired to the edge of the sparing yard, Bull setting their blades on a rack as Marcus began unbuckling his shield. It was custom made with a leather sleeve and several straps that secured it firmly to his forearm. Losing his hand had made him unable to weave many of the complex patterns necessary for casting spells, or to effectively wield a staff, and so his practical abilities as a mage had become extremely limited. Magic it seemed, was very much like playing the fiddle, difficult to do with only one hand. And so he had taken up practice with sword and shield, with Bull, Blackwall and Cullen each serving as instructors. After nearly two years of practice, he was still nowhere near being able to hold his own against any of them, although each had assured him he was a quick study. Life on the battlefield was much simpler when he could summon flame and ice as a weapon. He could still manage some simple offensive spells, but nothing remotely close to what he could summon during the war with Corypheus. He was dreading the day when he would have to take the field with only metal separating him from grim death, and he was certain that day was fast approaching.

Marcus pulled his shirt on over his sweat-slicked torso and took a long draught from the water skin that Bull offered. The cool liquid seemed to pour new energy into him and he drank deeply, letting droplets dribble down his chin and onto his chest.

"Hard to believe," Bull commented, "That they're still just over there, just beyond that horizon. What I wouldn't give to be a fly on the wall for one hour in those halls." Marcus looked over his shoulder and past the walls of Skyhold at the peaks of the Frostback Mountains, and occupied Ferelden beyond them. Two day's ride would put him in enemy territory, and he had been tempted many times to attempt that ride, but Ferelden was sealed tighter than a new mead cask. Word of the fall of Denerim and the destruction of Redcliffe had spread faster than Inquisition and Chantry messengers could ride. All of Thedas waited with baited breath to see where the invaders would strike next. They surprised everyone by not striking at all. They settled into their newly conquered lands and waited, fortifying and digging in. A string of forts now lined the Frostbacks and the Storm Coast, and Tamrielan ships patrolled their waters in force. The only information that came out of Ferelden came through spies. But that information was not inconsiderable.

More ships had begun making port in Ferelden barely a month after it had been conquered. Ships from across the ocean, from that strange continent of Tamriel that the invaders called home. The ships brought goods, and settlers, and soldiers. Each one that docked added to the numbers of the invasion force. They were bolstered further by Dalish clans who viewed them as liberators, Chasind and Avar barbarians bought with gold, and Ferelden levies that had bowed to the new order and now served the Tamrilic Empire. According to reports, their army had nearly tripled in size from the initial vanguard, and still they just waited, confident of their absolute security. Orlais had mustered its armies and they remained on high alert along the border. But the Orlesians were unwilling to press an attack through the narrow passes of the Frostbacks without allies, especially now that Val Royeaux itself was vulnerable to a naval attack by way of the Waking Sea. The Free Marches quickly unified their efforts in face of the Tamrilic threat under the Articles of Confederation, but lacked the manpower for any serious offensive on their own. The Tevinter Imperium had been surprisingly amenable to negotiations, but had made it clear that the prospect of pulling troops from their own borders was impossible as long as the Qunari remained a threat. From Par Vollen, Nevarra, Rivain and Antiva, there had been no word at all. Despite the fate of Ferelden, the people of Thedas remained unwilling to unite under a single banner. And so the Inquisition, with the sponsorship of the Chantry, had announced a Grand Conclave to be held at Skyhold in a few days' time. Orlais, Tevinter, and the Free Marches were all sending delegations which would include Empress Celene of Orlais and Archon Radonius of Tevinter, as well as several rulers from the Marcher city-states. Marcus hoped that at this conclave, the three countries would be able to hammer out an agreement and commit to an alliance against the invaders. Perhaps such a historic agreement between north and south would be enough to convince the other reluctant powers to throw in their lot for the common defense of the continent. If the Conclave failed, it would be only a matter of time before the new Empire swallowed up each sovereign nation of Thedas one by one.

"It has to happen soon," Marcus muttered, more to himself than Bull. The qunari turned his massive head and fixed Marcus with his one good eye. "All this time they have given us to prepare, they have been preparing as well," Marcus continued. He stood and put one foot on the bench and folded his arms over his knee. "We must be ready, the Conclave must be a success."

"It will be," Bull assured him as he stood and patted Marcus firmly on the shoulder. "And if it's not, well, who wants to live forever anyway?" Marcus chuckled despite himself and turned wearily toward Skyhold's keep, where preparations for the gathering were on in earnest.

"I should get back up there," Marcus commented. Bull cringed and shook his head.

"I'm glad I don't have your job, boss," he said. The pair began crossing the open yard and were halted just short of the great winding staircase that lead up to the keep by a familiar voice behind them.

"Quite the soiree you've got planned here, Inquisitor." Marcus and Bull glanced at each other and grinned. Marcus turned and performed an exaggerated bow, sweeping the dirt with his outstretched arms.

"Made all the more radiant by your presence, Viscount Tethras," he said. "We are honored to have you grace Skyhold's hallowed halls with your radiant presence once more!" Bull broke out into a robust laugh.

"Viscount Varric Tethras of Kirkwall," he commented, "I still can't figure out how you weaseled your way into that!" Varric chuckled as he pointed a stern finger at Bull.

"Watch yourself, Tiny," he said, "Or I'll send for a ladder and use this royal hand to slap the taste out of your mouth! And as for you," the dwarf turned to Marcus, looked him up and down, and smiled broadly, "Come here!" The two embraced heartily and Varric clasped Bull's forearm, all three men sharing a brief moment of unencumbered happiness.

"Maker's breath, Varric, you look terrible!" Marcus laughed, "What is that thing on your face?"

"Must finally be embracing his dwarven roots," Bull commented. Varric rolled his eyes and absently stroked the heavy blonde beard that now covered his once clean-shaven face.

"This?" he asked, "Well apparently this makes me look more…noble. As if that's what the people of Kirkwall wanted."

"The pretense won't last long," Marcus said wryly.

"It didn't last a day," he chuckled, "Got to keep up appearances though." Varric took a deep breath and looked around Skyhold. "Didn't realize how much I missed this place."

"I'm glad you're here, Varric," Marcus said. Bull nodded in agreement and slapped the rogue's shoulder.

"So am I," Varric said, but his smile quickly faded to a frown, "Wish it was under better circumstances," he muttered. Marcus and Bull turned somber as well at the comment. "We must be cursed," Varric said grimly, "One near world-ending calamity a millennium should be enough. What are we at now, three or four?"

"Five if you count the elf," Bull growled.

"Speaking of which," Marcus muttered. The other two men turned to see Solas gliding toward them, a serene smile on his lips. Bull muttered a curse and folded his arms across his massive chest.

"Master Tethras, it is good to see you my friend," Solas said with his hand to his heart and a slight nod.

"Friend?" Varric asked, cocking an eyebrow. "Are we allowed to be friends?" Marcus just shrugged.

"As long as we all cooperate, call it whatever you'd like," he said. Bull harrumphed and Varric looked at Solas suspiciously.

"Well then," he said slowly, "I guess I'm glad to see you too, Chuckles." Solas nodded again, but his smile lasted only momentarily as a troubled look crossed his face. The four men stood silently for a moment, shifting their weight uncomfortably. Marcus could tell the same thought was on all their minds. They were remembering how many times they had fought shoulder to shoulder. Each of them owed the others his life many times over. They had been friends, family, and then enemies. Now, it seemed none of them were quite sure what they were. "Well," Varric said tersely, "Gang's all back together again, what could possibly go wrong?"

"Aside from all of us dying of awkwardness, not a thing," Solas remarked lightly. Bull made a sour face and Varric's brow furrowed.

"Solas, was that…was that a joke?" Marcus asked. The elf shrugged.

"It seemed like the best way to ease the tension," he said. Then he looked at the stunned expressions of the other three men and turned his gaze sheepishly toward the ground. "Apparently, I was wrong."

"Well, don't worry," Varric said, "I think a dark cloud is on its way here to overshadow your faux pas." Marcus looked toward where Varric was nodding at the top of the staircase and grimaced as he saw Leliana striding purposefully toward them. "She back in the fold? Varric asked.

"No," Marcus said tightly, "She's on loan from Her Holiness as an official observer and representative of the Chantry. Her network and talents are, of course, completely at our disposal."

"That's a sword that cuts both ways, Inquisitor," Varric said. Marcus and Solas glanced at each other.

"At the moment, we need all the swords we can get," Solas replied.

"Yeah," Bull said with a huff, "Just be careful you don't fall on it. Speaking of which, I'm out. If I die today I don't want it to be because the Left Hand looked at me the wrong way. Stop by the Rest later, Varric, you still owe me some money." Varric laughed and nodded and Bull took his leave, walking just a bit faster than normal, as Leliana reached the bottom of the stairs. She spared a brief nod toward Varric who arched an eyebrow.

"They're here," she said simply to Marcus.

"They?" Marcus asked.

"Our contact brought along a companion, I don't know who he is. They're waiting in the war room." With that, she turned briskly on her heel and marched up the stairs back the way she had come.

"Nice to see you too," Varric muttered behind her back. He looked up at Marcus, "Who's the contact?" he asked.

"The Antivan Crows," Marcus said with some obvious distaste. Varric made an annoyed sound and grimaced.

"Not those guys again," he said.

"Remember, as many swords as we can get," Solas reminded them. Marcus sighed and looked up the stairs.

"Right, well, let's get on with it," he said. He paused and looked at Varric, "Care to sit in?"

"Me?" Varric asked with a frown, "A well-known scoundrel and a foreign sovereign, sitting in on a secret meeting between the Inquisition and the most notorious assassin's guild in Thedas? That sounds like a bad idea. Let's go." Marcus chuckled and the trio ascended the stairs and found their way to the war room.

The scene that greeted them was rife with tension. Blackwall and Cullen stood behind the massive war table, both looking extremely aggravated. Leliana stood to the side, scowling. In front of them, a blonde-haired elf sat with his hands behind his head, legs stretched out and resting on the edge of the table. He wore very strange armor that fit his body like a glove and was obviously made of some kind of leather, yet it also looked as if it were hard as steel. A sword hung over his back and a long dagger was on his hip. He had a wide grin on his face and seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. Marcus almost missed the other man in the room. He was draped in a black cloak with the hood up, standing motionless against a far wall. Despite the chamber being very well-lit, he seemed to be shrouded in a shadow that fell only on him. Marcus couldn't make out a single detail of the man's face, but he radiated a cold menace which made him feel distinctly uneasy.

"You could have announced yourselves at the front gate like normal bloody people instead of sneaking on in here," Blackwall growled. "That's a good way to get a sword in your gut." The blonde elf chuckled and shrugged merrily.

"Oh, I really don't think there was much danger of that," he said in a thick Antivan accent, "Considering the poor eyesight of your guards." Blackwall looked like he was ready to lunge across the table, but Cullen put a firm hand on his chest to restrain him. The elf laughed as though it were the funniest thing in the world. "It is not as though we were trying to 'sneak in' as you put it," he shot a curious glance at Leliana and winked, "We are just that good." Leliana's face reddened as she folded her arms and clenched her jaw.

"You really have not changed in the slightest," she said. The elf's eyes went wide and he put his hands to his heart.

"Well why on earth would I want to do that?" he asked innocently. "Being as handsome, and skilled and important as I am…" Marcus had enough and cleared his throat loudly, drawing all eyes to himself, Solas and Varric.

"Am I interrupting?" he asked as evenly as possible. The elf's face lit up and he hopped to his feet and bowed deeply.

"Inquisitor Trevelyan," Leliana said dryly, "I present Zevran Arainai, First Talon of the Antivan Crows." Before Marcus could respond, Zevran crossed the space between them, grabbed him firmly by the shoulders, and planted a kiss on each of his cheeks. Shocked silence hung over the room for a moment, even Solas' mouth dropping open in surprise, before a poorly stifled chuckled from Varric reeled everyone back in.

"Inquisitor Marcus Trevelyan!" Zevran said, beaming. "It is an honor and a privilege sir, to finally meet you in person. I feel as though I am meeting a long lost brother for the first time!"

"Well, ah, it is certainly an honor to meet you as well, Master Zevran," Marcus said after recovering his composure from the initial greeting. "I had no idea the First Talon would be visiting us personally."

"Some things are just that important," Zevran said cheerfully.

"Speaking of which," Cullen interjected, "You wrote to us four months ago that you were following a lead that could prove to be of some value. We haven't heard from you since, so why are you here now?" Zevran looked over his shoulder at Cullen and winked.

"Straight to business then is it, Commander Cullen?" he asked, "I like that." He sauntered back to his chair and sat in it, arms folded and legs crossed. "The long and short of it is, the princes of Antiva have been holding secret negotiations with these Tamrilic invaders, and they are coming very close to entering into an alliance."

"What!?" Blackwall exploded, "They wouldn't!"

"They would and they are," Zevran said coolly. "Antiva will remain an autonomous kingdom within the Empire. They are assured Imperial protection of their sovereignty and will be the beneficiaries of lucrative trade agreements which will give them access to goods and treasures from Tamriel itself. In exchange, Antiva will provide added tax revenue to the Empire and contribute to military operations." Zevran paused and looked squarely at Marcus. "And they will grant unlimited rite of passage to Tamrilic troops in Antivan territory." Marcus glanced at Solas and Varric, then at Blackwall, Cullen and Leliana. They had all suddenly become much more serious and introspective. Marcus paced slowly to the war table and regarded the large map that covered it.

"That would give them overland routes into Rivain, the Free Marches, and Tevinter," Cullen said.

"And several ports a stone's throw away from Par Vollen," Blackwall added.

"They can already strike at Orlais, Nevarra, and the Marches by sea or land," Marcus said. "If they can get a sizable force into Antiva, they can attack every kingdom in Thedas simultaneously." He looked at Cullen and Blackwall, who both nodded in agreement of the assessment. "This is what they've been waiting for," Marcus continued grimly, "They've been placing their pieces all this time, building up their strength to take Thedas with one massive push rather than wage war one nation at a time."

"Well, shit," Varric said as he began nervously stroking his beard.

"Why are you telling us this?" Leliana asked Zevran suspiciously, "What's your stake?"

"Would you believe me if I said it was out of a sense of patriotic duty?" Zevran asked. Leliana's eyes narrowed dangerously and Zevran sighed and shook his head. "Look, it might come as a surprise, but the authorities of Antiva are not exactly enamored of the Crows. We have been intertwined at every level of society for centuries, so they cannot get rid of us by force. But this Tamrilic Empire, it is another creature all together. If their troops set foot on Antivan soil, it will spell the end of the Crows. They will crush us, hunt us down one by one if necessary."

"And why would the Tamrielans go through such efforts to destroy the Crows when they could very easily buy them?" Solas asked coolly, "You are, after all, mercenaries. Hired blades. I see no reason you could not continue to operate under the Empire. In fact, given their ambitions at conquest, your lot seem to be the kind of ilk they would readily employ." Zevran glared at him with a look that was both accusing and incredulous.

"Have you met these people?" he asked. "They are not ones to suffer the existence of groups like the Crows in their domain."

"Maybe they aren't so bad then," Blackwall said acerbically. Zevran stood suddenly with a flash of anger and Blackwall's hand went instinctively to the hilt of his sword. Once again Cullen interposed himself between the two with outstretched hands, and Zevran slowly backed up a step as Blackwall released his blade.

"I mean," Zevran said, "That anyone who does not offer absolute devotion to their god-Emperor is utterly crushed underfoot, or did Redcliffe not make that message perfectly clear to you?" Zevran slowly sat back down, his hands on his knees. "We have agents in Ferelden, I myself have been there since the occupation. I have fought against hordes of darkspawn, witnessed the horrors of the Blight, seen the sky ripped open and demons fall to the earth, but I have never seen anything like this. Did you know that the Tamrielans do not have a single religion? Some of them worship gods that others believe are pure evil, and yet these people live side by side, completely unified. Because there is one deity that they all worship and obsess over, their Dragonborn Emperor. His cult now has temples and shrines in every city, town and village in Ferelden. Everyone is required by law to pay their respects at one of these holy sites at least once a month. It's nothing really, just tossing some incense into a brazier and writing your name in a book. But the penalty for not doing so is death. Not a fine or even imprisonment, no warnings, execution for the first offense. The heads of Andrastian faithful who refused to honor the Emperor as a god adorn pikes that line the roads all over the kingdom. Priests and laity, men, women, even children. Although not so many now as there were during the first few months of the occupation. The people of Ferelden have learned." Zevran paused and let the full weight of his revelation settle on those in the room. Marcus himself had never been particularly religious, but the very idea of what Zevran was saying made his skin crawl. "The Antivan Crows are not without honor," Zevran said sternly. "Yes, we kill for money. But there are lines, lines that simply cannot be crossed, acts of horror so grand they cannot be abided. The Tamrielans have long since crossed those lines, and are still going. Even if the Crows could survive under their rule, even if we could thrive, I would slit my own throat before throwing in my lot with them. I did not fight to rid Thedas of an archdemon to see it return in the guise of their Emperor!"

"So," Marcus said slowly as he straightened and folded his arms. "You want to ally with the Inquisition?"

"No," Zevran replied, "We want to fight alongside the people of Thedas against madmen who slaughter children for not praying to a mortal who thinks and behaves like he is a god." Zevran's eyes settled on Solas with a knowing glare, and the other elf flinched ever so slightly, but Marcus took note of it. He eyed Zevran curiously and pretended to consider the offer, although in truth it was one he could not afford to reject.

"Very well," he finally said, "We are allied." Marcus extended his hand and Zevran jumped back to his feet and grasped it firmly. There was no grin this time, just a steely resolve in his eyes.

"And how many soldiers will the famed Antivan Crows be bringing to this alliance?" Leliana asked, venom dripping from her voice. Everyone, even Blackwall who had been openly hostile at the beginning, looked at her in surprise. Zevran however, did not seem taken aback. He grinned dangerously and raised his eyebrow.

"Do not worry, Nightingale," he said knowingly, "After this conclave, you will have all the soldiers you need, that I promise you. We Crows will do what we do best: Murder and Mayhem. Before your grand army takes the field, your enemies must fear you. Right now they do not, but they will. We already have targets marked in both Antiva and Ferelden, operations have already been set in motion. Knives, my friends, knives in the dark. By the time you meet them on the field, our enemies will fear the people of Thedas." Marcus pulled his hand back and looked intensely at Zevran. This was not the jovial, eccentric elf he had met a few minutes ago. This was a predator, deadly and cold, and Marcus understood why he had survived the Blight and risen to become First Talon. Leliana was looking at him as well, and the scorn slowly melted from her face as she nodded in understanding, and Marcus thought he saw the ghost of a sinister smile on her lips. He looked back at Zevran curiously.

"You said after this conclave we will have all the soldiers we need," he said. "How can you know that? It is a long shot at best." The twinkle reappeared in Zevran's eye as he sat back down in his chair, looking like a man who knew the punchline to a joke no one else had heard.

"Because the only serious impediment to an alliance between Orlais, Tevinter, and the Free Marches is the Qunari, am I right?" Marcus nodded slowly, not able to quite hide his confusion. "We can deliver the Qunari to you." Marcus had not expected that, apparently no one else had either, as confused glances darted around the room and Zevran's mischievous smile reasserted itself.

"What do you mean, 'deliver the Qunari'?" Cullen asked.

"How is that even possible," asked Leliana with renewed suspicion.

"I mean that we can definitely get the Qunari to stand down against Tevinter and possibly even get them to join your alliance," Zevran said confidently. "We have friends very high up in the Qun."

"Friends high up in the Qun?" Blackwall asked incredulously, "What does that even mean?"

"It means exactly what it sounds like," Zevran said, "Specifically, the Arishok." More stunned silence.

"You're telling us," Varric said slowly, "That you, the head of the Antivan Crows, have a personal relationship with the head of the entire Qunari military? Sorry, but that's a story even I couldn't write. The old Arishok died in Kirkwall over fourteen years ago and no one even knows who replaced him." Zevran chuckled.

"That's not entirely accurate," he said cryptically. "And forgive me for misspeaking, I do not have a personal relationship with the Arishok, nor do the Crows in any official capacity." Zevran jerked his thumb over his shoulder, "But he does." Marcus had completely forgotten about the other man in the room. He stepped forward now and slowly drew back his hood. He was another elf, with sharp features that might have been beautiful or even delicate if not for the hardened expression of a seasoned fighter he wore. His hair was shaved down to a fine stubble, and especially dark Vallaslin tattoos crisscrossed his face, thickening considerably around piercing eyes the color of emeralds. He put his hands on his hips, which pushed the folds of his dark cloak back, revealing armor that was almost identical to Zevran's as well as the handles of two vicious daggers on his hips and dozens of smaller knives sheathed all over his body. Leliana gasped audibly, and Marcus turned to see her steadying herself with one hand on the edge of the table and the other covering her mouth. Her eyes were wide and the color had all but completely drained from her face.

"You…" was all she managed to choke out. Marcus turned again to see the strange elf nod slightly in recognition.

"Who are you?" Marcus demanded. The elf remained silent and fixed him with those hard emerald eyes, and Marcus had to force himself not to shrink from his stare.

"This is Feanor Sabrae," Zevran said, "He is my blood brother, as well as Kadan to the Arishok of the Qun who, when we met him, was a Sten of the beresaad." Realization dawned slowly on the faces now staring at Feanor, and Marcus suddenly recalled all the stories he had heard.

"Are you…?" Blackwall began hesitantly.

"The Hero of Ferelden," Zevran finished with a grin and a hint of pride. "I probably should have mentioned that earlier."


	16. The Emperor's Hand

**Chapter 16: The Emperor's Hand**

The inner sanctum of the Imperial Palace in Denerim seemed unnaturally cold. Cold and dark. The oppressive sensations were not why Aethilis shifted uncomfortably in his chair, however, nor were they why he was struggling not to shiver. The silhouettes of black-armored Blades lined the walls, rigid and unflinching as statues. Even as a general, it was rare to see so many of the Empire's most feared killers in one place at one time. Aethilis could feel their eyes on him, watching him through the narrow slits in their full-faced helms. Their presence would have been unnerving enough, but Aethilis was also certain the chamber was filled with other things. Things hidden in the shadows, moving just beyond his vision. Occasionally he would be certain that he saw something move in the peripheries of his vision, but whenever he turned his head he saw only darkness. He stopped trying to catch sight of whatever was moving, he had a feeling he probably didn't want to know anyway. Sulla was faring no better in the chair next to him. He was sitting very still, but his eyes were wide and darting from side-to-side, and a sheen of sweat covered his face despite the chill in the air.

After being made to wait for what seemed like an inordinate amount of time, Aethilis heard an unseen door open at the other end of the chamber followed shortly by the clapping of several pairs of booted feet on the stone floor. Aethilis and Sulla both stood and bowed respectfully as their hosts entered the small ring of light that surrounded the table, flanked by several more armed Blades. Viceroy A'zzmar slid gracefully into her chair without acknowledging the pair of generals. Praetor Ivar by contrast smiled generously and motioned for them to retake their seats. The Captain of the military arm of the Blades, Ivar had recently been elevated to Praetor of Ferelden, placing both Aethilis and Sulla directly under his command. A'zzmar was the administrative head of the entire Order of the Blades, and by extension the civilian bureaucracy of the Empire. Between the two of them, they controlled everything, and took their orders directly from the Emperor himself. Aethilis caught Sulla shooting him a sideways glance out of the corner of his eye. Aethilis knew what he was thinking, neither of them had ever been called to a personal audience with people of such rank before. This would either be very good, or very bad.

"Gentlemen," Ivar began without preamble, "The time has come." Aethilis and Sulla looked at each other, Sulla's brow raised in surprise.

"We're moving?" Sulla asked, "Truly?" Ivar nodded and Sulla sat back in his chair, looking at the Praetor with a mixture of confusion and doubt.

"We've been bottled up here in Ferelden for over a year," Aethilis ventured cautiously. "I have personally penned several requests for further briefings during that time which have all been…very respectfully declined."

"You may consider this your briefing then, general," A'zzmar said icily. Aethilis nodded respectfully, being sure to check his tone.

"Understood Madame Viceroy, I meant no offense. I mean only that this is rather sudden and unexpected."

"Indeed," said Ivar. "Truth be told, we have had to accelerate our plans. Given the choice, I personally would prefer to build up our strength even further." A'zzmar glared at Ivar, and Aethilis thought he heard a low growl come from her throat. Ivar either did not care or pretended not to notice. "More reinforcements arrive daily from Tamriel," the Praetor continued, "And with Antiva about to enter the Imperial fold, a few more months would have found us in a strategically superb position."

"The situation has changed," Sulla stated. Ivar nodded coolly as A'zzmar's whickers twitched. "In what way?" he asked. Ivar cleared his throat and appeared momentarily uncomfortable before regaining his composure. One of the small orbs of light that hovered over the table and provided the only light in the room followed him as he stood and walked a few paces to where a giant map of Thedas was suspended between two pillars.

"It would appear that the people of Thedas are not quite as divided as we were initially lead to believe," he said as he folded his arms behind his back and studied the map.

"How do you mean?" Sulla asked.

"They are preparing to invade Ferelden." Sulla stared at Ivar's back and blinked. He looked at Aethilis, who could only shrug. He felt as dumbfounded as Sulla looked.

"Invade," Sulla said as though he had just learned the meaning of the word. He shook his head again. "Who are 'they'?" he asked. Ivar looked over and cocked an eyebrow before returning his attention to the map.

"The Orlesians are redeploying their army," he began. "They are shifting the majority of their forces away from their defensive positions guarding the Frostback passes and are massing around Sahrnia and Sulevin's Cradle. Several battalions of heavy cavalry have also been dispatched north to Skyhold." Ivar then pointed to the Free Marches. "Large forces have left most of the Marcher city-states, and seem to be converging around Kirkwall and Ostwick on the coast of the Waking Sea. We have also just received word at least one Tevinter legion has set out from Marothius and is crossing the mountains toward Antiva." Aethilis imagined the large armies moving across the map as Ivar paused, seeing the strategy unfold before him in his mind's eye. "These are offensive maneuvers," Ivar pointed out, "And the degree of coordination cannot be a coincidence. These kingdoms have formed an alliance, and are preparing to go on the offensive."

"They'll hit us simultaneously on three fronts," Aethilis mused. "Orlais and the Free Marches invade Ferelden from the west and north while the Imperium takes Antiva before we can reinforce it."

"Indeed," Ivar nodded.

"Our scouts and spies reported nothing of this," Sulla noted.

"As I said, this is a very recent development. Fortunately the Emperor has less…mundane resources at his disposal"

"Why Antiva?" Aethilis asked. "The treaty has not yet been signed. They could not possibly know of the negotiations." Ivar shot an accusing look at A'zzmar.

"Apparently they can and do," he said with a note of disdain. The Viceroy stood with a snarl, her tail thrashing.

"Perhaps if you had not been so lax with our army," she began before Ivar whirled on her.

"I have fulfilled my military obligations exactly as the Emperor commanded," he said sternly. "The negotiations with Antiva, and the security of those proceedings, were your responsibility, Viceroy. Do not try to displace the blame for your failure onto me!" Aethilis and Sulla sat as still as they could manage as the two ranking Blades stared each other down. Finally A'zzmar broke eye contact and sat again. Aethilis slowly rose to his feet and approached the map.

"This fortress here, Skyhold," he said, "Why would the Orlesians send cavalry there? I was under the impression it was of no strategic value."

"It is the home of the Inquisition," Ivar said, "And independent organization. We concluded early on that it did not pose a military threat, as they have a standing force of only a few hundred. Apparently its political influence in Thedas is substantially more than we could have anticipated."

"This alliance, it is of three nations who have historically been enemies," Sulla said. "Are you saying that this Inquisition managed to barter this cooperation?" Ivar nodded and A'zzmar once again got to her feet.

"More specifically, we believe it was the Inquisition's leader," she said. "A man by the name of Marcus Trevelyan."

"Let me guess," Sulla said dryly, "Another hero? This continent is lousy with them." A'zzmar shook her head and Ivar chuckled.

"The King of Ferelden was a hero," he said, "Inquisitor Trevelyan is a legend in his own time."

"What did he do?" Aethilis asked.

"You both have read the reports on the Breach?" A'zzmar asked. Aethilis nodded.

"They're a bit hard to make sense of," Sulla said. "Most of it sounds like superstitious barbarian nonsense to me."

"If the stories were a hundred years old, I'd be inclined to agree," A'zzmar said, "But they are only four years old. The Blades are conducting an ongoing investigation to separate fact from embellishment, but what is clear is that a cataclysmic event took place here four years ago, followed by a war that nearly destroyed the entire continent. All of this was caused by an ancient and incredibly powerful entity that we do not fully understand." A'zzmar paused and looked at Ivar and then Sulla and Aethilis. "We are fighting a generation that has already stared annihilation in the face and is still here," she said ominously. "You all would do well to remember that when formulating your strategies." Ivar fixed her with an annoyed stare and then returned his gaze to the map.

"To make a long story short," he said, "Marcus Trevelyan won the war. Along with a small handful of companions, he formed the Inquisition with the express purpose of defeating this enemy. In the beginning they were very few and regarded as rebels and heretics by most of civilized society. But over time they demonstrated that, for reasons we are not yet sure of, they were the only force in Thedas that could hope for consistent success and ultimate victory against this adversary. In less than a year, they had become quite possibly the most powerful military force in Thedas."

"Yet now they are not," Aethilis observed.

"Some two years ago, Trevelyan disbanded the Inquisition's Grand Army," A'zzmar said. "Since then they've maintained only a small standing military and have acted mostly as mediators and peace keepers. But Trevelyan's name, and the memory of what he and his followers accomplished, remains a source of…inspiration."

"And so he is to thank for this alliance that is now formed against us," Aethilis said.

"It is indeed an alliance of old enemies," Ivar said, "We believe Trevelyan is the thread holding it together."

"If that thread were to be cut…" Aethilis said, Ivar grinned and nodded.

"Then we should attack Skyhold immediately," Sulla said firmly as he got to his feet. "It is right on our border, give me a single legion and I…"

"Out of the question," Ivar said. "Skyhold is unassailable. It is carved into the side of a mountain, the only point of access is a stone bridge that spans a chasm a thousand feet deep. A hundred men could hold off an army of thousands indefinitely. We could take Skyhold, but only at great cost, a cost we cannot afford at this time."

"Even with our dragons? And our Centurions and…"

"Yes," Ivar said firmly. "Even with all of it."

"And so what is to be done?" asked Aethilis. Ivar and A'zzmar exchanged uneasy glances and slowly retook their seats. Aethilis thought they both looked suddenly frightened, and wondered with a sense of foreboding what could inspire such fear in two powerful people in the heart of the Imperial Palace.

"Where an army fails, one man may succeed," A'zzmar said. "When sword and shield and dragon fire are not enough, we must use other weapons."

Before Aethilis or Sulla could ask what she meant, the room grew suddenly even colder and the orbs of light illuminating the space seemed to dim. Aethilis saw A'zzmar and Ivar stiffen, their eyes turned downward. He heard the shuffling of the Blades guards in their armor for the first time since he entered the room. His skin was crawling, and a voice in the back of his mind screamed at him to flee, only through sheer force of will did he remain standing where he was. Sulla's hand was on his sword, his eyes darting frantically around the darkening room.

Then it appeared. A figure materialized out of the shadows as if from thin air. Its obsidian armor seemed to be one with the immaterial darkness and swallowed any ambient light around it, and its face was covered by a strange mask that seemed to glow.

"Blood of the Dargonborn!" Sulla exclaimed as he began to draw his sword. Aethilis' hand shot out and grabbed Sulla's wrist, but it was too late. A dagger hissed through the air and buried itself to the hilt in the general's chest. Sulla opened his mouth to scream, but only a stream of blood spurted out. Sulla slumped to the floor with Aethilis' hand still around his wrist. He let go and took a step back in horror.

"Why!?" he screamed, "What is the meaning of this?" Ivar and A'zzmar remained seated, their eyes downcast, looking almost contrite.

"The Hand of the Emperor do not suffer steel drawn in their presence," Ivar whispered.

"The Hand of the…" Aethilis trailed off and he looked at the shadowy figure again. He recognized the mask then, only from reputation. One of nine ancient masks that bestowed on their wearers powerful enchantments. Given as gifts by the Emperor himself to The Nine Imperial Guards. They were his instruments, extensions of his will, his voice, his eyes, his hands.

His weapons.

Aethilis' gaze drifted down from the mask to the symbol emblazoned on the Imperial Guard's armor. An ancient symbol, one wreathed in myth, whispered of in the dead of night by mothers to their children to scare them into obedience. He stared at it, a jagged skull with a blood-red handprint on its forehead. Tendrils of terror like he had never felt crept into his heart and robbed him of any remaining constitution as the dark reality of the monster before him seized his mind.

"The Dark Brotherhood," he whispered hoarsely as he sank to his knees and clutched his head between his arms. He heard the boot steps come crashing down one by one as the assassin walked toward him. He heard a sickly wet tearing sound as the dagger was pulled from Sulla's chest. Aethilis curled himself into a ball and closed his eyes tight until the sound of the footfalls finally receded into silence.

"Get up, General," he heard Ivar say. He obeyed, pulling himself to his feet in time to see two Blades grab Sulla by his arms and drag his limp form away. He forced himself not to look. Ivar and A'zzmar were standing again, looking very solemn.

"Begin deploying your troops general," Ivar said. "We must get them in place as soon as possible." He paused before adding, "You will be informed of General Sulla's replacement shortly." Aethilis nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat as he managed a weak salute. He looked at the smeared blood on the floor where Sulla's body had been.

"He is going to kill Marcus Trevelyan?" he stammered. Ivar nodded gravely, and Aethilis suddenly felt a great swell of pity for the man. It must have shown on his face, because Praetor Ivar walked around the table and put a hand on his shoulder.

"I know," he said.


	17. Baptized in Blood and Fear

**Chapter 17: Baptized in Blood and Fear**

Marcus Trevelyan always had nightmares. He dreamed about the explosion at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, the destruction of Haven, the Battle of Adamant. He dreamed of red lyrium, of demons and abominations, of holes in the sky disgorging terror. Mostly he dreamed of death, of lives he had taken and the lives of friends lost. Since the Dragonborn had come to Thedas, his dreams had taken on a different hue. He no longer dreamed of fears past, but of shadowy images of a future not yet taken shape. Through the mists of the Fade he glimpsed the savagery of a land transformed, of desolate earth and a scorched sky. Legions of armored warriors bearing bloody swords and shields and lines of men and women in chains as far as the eye could see. Upon waking all of it would fade away into something insubstantial, something just beyond his grasp. The details in his mind would melt away the harder he tried to grasp them, and he would be left with nothing but an abstract sense of unease.

This dream was nothing like those. This dream felt far too real.

Darkness was creeping into his room. Slowly and silently it slipped in under the pane of his windows and through the cracks in the walls. Oozing like blood from a wound it covered every surface. It was coming for him. Marcus tried to move, but his limbs were paralyzed. He tried to cry out, but his voice would not obey. The darkness pooled around his feet, he felt its warm stickiness on his soles.

" _Wake up!"_ he screamed.

Marcus' eyes snapped open as the dagger arced down toward his chest. He rolled on pure instinct, crying out in pain as the blade's edge slashed his back and he tumbled onto the floor. He scrambled on all floors, trying to put as much distance between himself and his attacker as he could. He reached out to grab his sword, but his legs tangled in the bed sheets and he fell flat on his face, the tips of his fingers just brushing the hilt. He felt his assailant walking calmly toward him. He reached down and grabbed hold of his mana, weaving the first spell that came to mind. Flames crackled between his fingertips, and without looking he rolled onto his back and let the fireball fly. The assassin burst into flames as the mage-fire struck him squarely in the chest. It barely slowed him down. He paused a step and flicked his wrist as if he was swatting at a fly, and all at once the fire extinguished. Marcus felt his blood chill as he took in the black armor, the expressionless mask, and long dagger held bare in one hand. The assailant walked toward him and all Marcus could do was stare.

The door to his chambers burst open and six guards stormed in, swords at the ready. Two grabbed Marcus under the shoulders and pulled him back, the other four surrounded the attacker who stopped mid-step, turning his head slightly to take in the new threat. Marcus got to his feet and grabbed his sword from where it leaned against the bannister. The four veterans of the Inquisition, who had faced demons and worse, seemed to falter and pause as they warily circled this new adversary. One of them found his courage before the others and stepped forward.

"Drop your…"

The dagger moved so fast Marcus didn't even see it, all he saw was the eruption of blood from the gash in the guard's neck. The other three lunged forward simultaneously, but their blades found only air. The assassin didn't even parry a single stroke, he just danced around the slashing and thrusting blades, twisting his body into impossible shapes with unnatural speed. Another guard fell, and then another. The two who had pulled Marcus to safety raised their swords to charge into the fray.

"No!" Marcus yelled, "Back, fall back!" The trio turned and sprinted out of the chamber into the hallway just as a muffled scream signaled the final guard's demise. Marcus pumped his arms and legs as fast as he could, his only thought being to get out of the narrow hallway and into the great hall. He turned a corner and practically crashed into Cullen at the head of three more soldiers. The commander was dressed only in a night shirt and loose pants, barefoot with a naked sword in his hand.

"Marcus!" he cried in surprise.

"Run!" Marcus yelled, "Get to the great hall, all of you, now!"

"He's coming!" One of the guards yelled. It was one of Marcus' companions who had just saved his life. He and the other guard turned and raised their swords. "Get the Inquisitor out of here!" he shouted. Just then the black-clad assassin rounded the corner, walking at an almost leisurely pace. He casually raised his hand palm outward. The ground under the guard glowed blue, his scream cut off as he was suddenly encased in solid ice. The other guard charged forward, Marcus and the others were already running again. Steel clashed behind him, followed by a sickening tear, and then silence.

They reached the great hall, Cullen and one of the other guards slammed the door behind them and shoved an iron bolt into place.

"What in Andraste's name was that?" Cullen gasped.

"Inquisitor! Cullen!" Marcus turned and saw Blackwall running toward them from the undercroft, four more soldiers in tow. "What in the bloody hell is going on?"

"Assassin," Marcus said. Blackwall grimaced and drew his sword.

"Let's get him before he escapes!"

"No!" Marcus said, "He's not trying to escape." Blackwall's eyebrows arched in surprise. He looked at the bolted door and the pale faces of Marcus, Cullen, and the other soldiers.

"Just one man?" he asked.

"This is no man," Marcus replied. He turned to one of the other guards. "Go, sound the general alarm, we need more soldiers in here, now! And mages too, as many as you can find!" The guard nodded and sprinted from the hall.

"Inquisitor, you need to get out of here," Cullen said, "We'll hold him as long as we can."

"You know bloody well that's not going to happen," Marcus. Cullen looked about to argue, but instead nodded and readied himself.

"Fan out," Cullen ordered, "Crescent formation, hit him from every side at once." The nine men circled up, weapons ready and stances wide. Outside they heard the alarm bell start to clang as all hell broke loose.

The door exploded outward in a shower of flame and splinters. The assassin landed in a crouch, a second dagger appeared as if by magic in his empty hand. Marcus went straight for him, and had not taken more than three steps before a sound like a sudden wind emanated from behind the mask.

 _Fus._

Marcus felt like he had run into a brick wall and stumbled backward onto one knee. The assassin leapt at him, twin daggers whirling. Cullen and Blackwall interposed themselves at that last possible moment, each of them parrying a dagger. Their opponent quickly flipped away, his lighting quick blades slashing across Cullen's ribs and opening Blackwall's shoulder before either of them could strike. The other guards threw themselves into the fray, and the air became a flurry of flashing metal. Marcus regained his footing and rallied Cullen and Blackwall, the three of them adding their swords and battle cries to the dance of death.

The assassin was inhuman. He moved and parried and slashed as if every one of his opponents was moving in slow motion. He seemed to know where they would be before they did. One by one the soldiers fell to the ground, until Marcus, Cullen, and Blackwall were all that remained. Each of them was plastered with sweat and bleeding from a half dozen dagger wounds. They backed up, panting, their backs pressed together. Once more the assailant walked toward them calmly, seemingly in no hurry to finish them off.

Suddenly he arched his back and screeched like a massive bird of prey and spun away from Marcus and the others. A crossbow bolt was buried between his shoulder blades, and more were hissing through the air around him. Marcus turned and saw Varric in the open doorway of the great hall, his crossbow Bianca planted firmly in his hip, firing off bolts as fast as he could pull the trigger. Bull barreled past him, his great-axe raised over his head, covering the distance between himself and the assassin quickly.

The assassin spun and dodged the arrows with the same ease with which he had danced between the swords of the Inquisition. In mid-air he let fly one of his daggers, striking Varric below his collarbone and dropping the dwarf to the ground. Then he reached out toward Bull with his empty hand and clenched it into a fist. The massive axe clattered to the floor as Bull screamed in pain. His entire body went rigid, surrounded by a pulsating red light.

Marcus saw his chance. With the assassin's attention focused on Bull, Marcus lunged toward his exposed back and drove his sword home. Again the assassin screeched like something out of a nightmare. The red light surrounding Bull vanished and he dropped limply to the floor. In an instant Cullen and Blackwall were next to Marcus, thrusting their blades into exposed ribs. His body pinned between three swords, the assassin thrashed and staggered to one knee as the blades were pulled free one by one. Marcus watched him crawl, pulling himself away with one hand, the other grasping at his ruined midriff.

"Die!" Marcus screamed, "Just die damn you!" Slowly the assassin raised a quivering hand, and tendrils of light began snaking down his arm from his open palm and wrapped around his body. Marcus watched in disbelief, and despair gripped him as the assassin stood. The arrow seemed to push itself out of his back, his wounds sewed themselves shut, even the holes in his armor closed. The light blinked out, and the creature turned. An evil glow spilled out of the eye-slits of its mask as it stared at Marcus.

"Oh, come on," Blackwall groaned. Marcus felt his legs give out from under him and he collapsed to his knees. Blackwall stood to his right, his sword wavering in front of him. Cullen stood to his left, his hand on Marcus' shoulder, trying to steady himself, weak from loss of blood. Pure energy cascaded down the assassin's arms, and Marcus braced himself for what was to come.

"Enough!" a voice boomed. Marcus turned to see Solas striding toward them, only it wasn't Solas. His eyes were bright like two miniature suns, and his entire body seemed to be wreathed in Veil-fire. A massive shadow towered above him, stretching up into the rafters of the great hall. The assassin whirled and let out another high-pitched shriek, dropping to all fours like an animal. Solas stopped a few yards away. "You are done here, servant of the dragon gods."

"Dreamwalker," the assassin hissed. Solas cocked his head to the side.

"You know me?"

"We know you, and now we see your face."

"Then you know how this ends," Solas replied.

"We see you," the creature spat. The shadow above Solas darkened, thunder clapped from somewhere deep inside it, and for a moment Solas' face appeared as that of a fearsome wolf.

The assassin sprung forward with none of his former grace, his hands outstretched, reaching for Solas' throat. Solas held up one hand, and what seemed like a hundred lances of blue light shot out of the assassin's body. There was a blinding flash and a blast of wind that sent Marcus sprawling onto his back. Then silence.

Marcus blinked to clear his vision and forced himself upright. Cullen and Blackwall groaned on either side of him, trying to regain their wits. Solas stood leaning against the wall breathing heavily, the terrible maelstrom that had surrounded him had vanished. One hand covered his eyes and he looked very pale. Cullen got to his feet first and staggered to Marcus, grabbing his arms and pulling him onto his quivering legs.

"Inquisitor," Cullen said shakily, "Are you…?"

"Yes," Marcus said, "See to Blackwall." Cullen nodded and went to help the other man to his feet. Marcus stumbled toward Bull, who was on all fours and swaying back and forth.

"I'm alright, boss," Bull said weakly. "Varric." Marcus looked toward the door where Varric lay still, curled into a fetal position, a large pool of blood spreading underneath him. Marcus hurried over and rolled Varric onto his back. One look at the wound told him all he needed to know.

"Varric," Marcus whispered, gently slapping his friend's face. "Varric stay with me." Varric's eyes fluttered open and he smiled weakly.

"Ruffles, you're alright." Varric raised a trembling hand and Marcus grasped it tightly. "You're alright." Varric's eyes closed as his head lulled back. Marcus felt him shudder as he exhaled a single long breathe. Then he was still.

Marcus checked for a pulse and found none. He stared at Varric's pale face and slowly released his friend's hand. He crawled backwards in a daze until his back hit the heavy wooden door and he began shaking uncontrollably between ragged sobs. Blood oozed towards him, thick and dark. Marcus tried to move, but his limbs were paralyzed. He tried to cry out, but his voice would not obey. The blood pooled around his bare feet, he felt its warm stickiness on his soles.

"Wake up," he whispered, "Wake up, Varric."

His friend's eyes did not open.

.


	18. A Reason to Fight

**Chapter 18: A Reason to Fight**

Marcus sat alone atop Skyhold's highest tower. Below him, funeral pyres cast an eerie glow in the early morning light. It had been a long time since those fires had burned in Skyhold, not nearly long enough. Many more would burn before the end. And still life went on, and the Inquisition prepared for war. Riders came and went, orders were delivered and received. The wheels turned and could not be stopped. They would all fight, they would fight because he would lead them. In all his life, throughout all his trials and tribulations, Marcus had never felt so alone.

Varric's body was on its way back to Kirkwall for a state funeral. He had left behind a small chest of personal belongings, addressed to Marcus. Inside the chest were mostly souvenirs and mementos Varric had collected during his time with the Inquisition. The most precious item in the chest was Bianca, Varric's exotic repeating crossbow, the weapon that defined him and was practically an extension of himself. With the crossbow were the schematics for how it was built, along with a sealed letter describing in detail how the weapon had actually come into his possession. That had been the dwarf's most carefully guarded secret, the one story he swore he would never tell.

A frayed book was also among the treasures, its pages worn and margins filled with copious notes. Across the top of the front page was scrawled _The Tale of the Inquisitor._ Below it a note read: 'Give to Ruffles to proofread before sending to publisher.' Then below that in fresher ink: 'When this is all over.' Marcus held it, flipping the pages between his thumb and forefinger, feeling numb. He hadn't begun to read it, he didn't know if he ever would. With a sigh he put the book inside his chest pocket. It felt heavy, much heavier than it should. Marcus closed his eyes and rubbed his temples between his thumb and forefinger. He didn't want to think, he didn't even want to be.

"I heard about what happened to your friend." Marcus turned and was surprised to see Feanor standing at the top of the stone stairs. The Hero of Ferelden was still draped in his long black cloak. The hood was back, showing off the very intricate and very black tattoos on the elf's handsome face. "I'm sorry," he said. The sympathetic words sounded odd coming from a face that wore such a cold and unnerving expression. Feanor crossed to where Marcus was sitting and stood next to him, arms folded. The two stared down at the courtyard in silence for several minutes.

"The attempt on your life was good," Feanor said. Marcus looked at him incredulously. "It shows that the enemy is afraid of you, I did not think they were. They will be even more unnerved when they learn such an obviously elite and powerful killer failed to do you in. They will be hesitant now, cautious. There is an opportunity for you to press the advantage here, Inquisitor."

"Good men died," Marcus said, "My friend died." Feanor looked at him, his expression unchanging.

"This is war," he said simply. "Many more good men and friends will die before it is over. You should not squander what their lives will purchase." Marcus shook his head in disbelief and then scoffed in disgust.

"I loathe men like you, you know that?" he said.

"There are no men like me," Feanor said evenly.

"Oh yes there are, I've met more than I can count in my day."

"I promise you, you haven't." Feanor was glowering dangerously but Marcus didn't care. He got to his feet and stood eye-to-eye with him.

"Is that so?" Marcus challenged. "You see the lives of others as nothing more than expendable currency. What makes you different from the hundreds of other self-centered, narcissistic fools who think the same?"

"I'm far more dangerous than any of them," Feanor said. After a pause he added, "And I harbor no delusions that my life is worth any more than anyone else's. Everyone dies. Everyone." Marcus looked Feanor up and down. There was no doubt he was dangerous, he saw it in the man's eyes, the way he stood, the way he talked. But that was all. He was a killer, nothing more. Marcus saw in that moment that there was no higher ideal that this legendary warrior held himself to.

"The Hero of Ferelden," Marcus said with disgust as he turned and sat back down between the crenulations. "Such an idealist." Feanor laughed. It was an odd sound, devoid of any mirth or joviality.

"The Hero of Ferelden only came into existence after I had piled up enough bodies and crowned it with the head of an arch-demon," he said dryly. "Before that I was an outlaw, a murderer. No armies rallied to my banner to fight out of some sense of moral obligation or high minded idealism. Apostates, bastards, assassins, heretics, disgraced soldiers, those were my companions, that was my inner circle. We hacked and carved out the alliance that stopped the Blight with sword, dagger and spell and waded through rivers of blood to do it." Marcus was taken aback at how Feanor described his role in stopping the Blight, but he was even more unnerved at the way he spoke. Feanor's voice remained calm, his demeanor cool and detached, as if he felt nothing personal for the events he was describing whatsoever. He leaned against the parapet wall, arms still folded across his chest as he regarded Marcus with his piercing emerald eyes. "But you, the Herald of Andraste, the Maker's chosen, you're something different entirely. People flocked to you, fought for you, died for you, because you gave them hope. They believed that you would win, that you would lead them to victory. They did not believe it because of some myth about you being a living prophet, no. They believed it because _you_ had hope, _you_ believed that you could win. So tell me now, Herald of Andraste, do you believe that you can win this war?" Marcus stared at the sharp angles of Feanor's face, the unblinking eyes that looked so radiant and so cold surrounded by the black of his tattoos. Finally he shook his head and looked at the ground.

"I have to believe," he said, "Someone has to. If I don't…" Suddenly Feanor's face was inches away from his own as he leaned over to look him square in the eye.

"Don't talk to me like I'm one of them," he said with an edge of aggression in his voice as he pointed down to the courtyard. "I'm not. I'm not an idealist and I couldn't give two damns about how many thrones or rulers there are in Thedas. I'm not your ally because I believe in the higher purpose of keeping this land free from foreign occupation, I have my own reasons for fighting. So tell me, Inquisitor, do you believe you can win?" Marcus wanted to say yes more than anything, but he knew Feanor's eyes would see through the lie. After a moment he looked away.

"No," he said quietly, "I do not think we can win." Feanor nodded as if this were the answer he expected. He walked a few steps away and looked over his shoulder.

"So why fight?" he asked.

"What other choice is there?"

"Submit," Feanor said simply as he turned and put his hands on his hips. "Surrender." Marcus looked at him as if he had just suggested he change the order of the seasons or make the sun rise in the west. "Do what the Antivans are doing, become part of the new Empire. Throw in your lot with the conquerors if you believe their victory is inevitable. Imagine how many lives will be saved, how much destruction would be avoided."

"You can't be serious," Marcus said in disbelief.

"Why not?" Feanor asked with a shrug. Marcus leapt to his feet and jabbed his finger into Feanor's chest.

"Because this Dragonborn brings nothing but death and despair! Bowing to his Empire will not save lives or bring peace, it will only bring more suffering to the people of Thedas! I have heard the whispers and seen visions of what will come to pass under his reign. We all know what is happening in Ferelden and you yourself know what happens to anyone who so much as thinks anything contrary to his will! I cannot, I will not sit by and let that future come to pass unchallenged!"

"So you will throw away your life and the lives of thousands of others for this? For principle?"

"Yes!" Marcus screamed. "My life, and tens of thousands of lives more! I would see Thedas bled dry so that monster has only a barren land of bones to rule over! If this is to be my end, our end, I would make it such an end that it will be burned into the collective memory of these Imperials until the end of days!" Marcus breathed heavily and felt his heart racing. Feanor calmly folded his arms and looked at him knowingly. Slowly, the words that he had spoken sunk in, and Marcus staggered backwards, putting his hand on the wall to steady himself. "What am I becoming?" he gasped.

"You're becoming what all men with power become once they lose hope," Feanor said. "Desperate. You need to find another reason to fight Inquisitor. When hope fails, you must find something else to drive you forward, or you become the thing you're trying to destroy."

"What else is there if not hope?"

"There is hate," Feanor said. Silence stretched between them. Marcus blinked and looked at Feanor through narrowed eyes.

"Hate?" he asked. The word sounded foreign to him.

"Yes," Feanor said, "Or do you think hate is beneath you? Do you think it is not a just reason to fight?" Feanor walked towards him slowly. "For the thousands of innocents who were at Redcliffe, for those now in chains languishing in Ferelden's darkest prisons, for that future you see so clearly, a future of darkness and suffering." Feanor paused, "For your friend Varric, bleeding to death on the floor. Do you not hate them for that?" Feanor turned and looked out toward the mountains in the direction of Ferelden, and his mouth twitched. For the first time his face showed emotion, and it was dark. "I hate them." Marcus followed Feanor's gaze, imagining rank upon rank of Tamrilic soldiers in their glittering armor, their pendants snapping in the wind, their majesty and their power.

"Yes," he said softly, "I hate them." Feanor turned and took Marcus by the shoulders, forcing him to meet his gaze. When he did, Feanor nodded, and Marcus found himself nodding back.

"Good. Now use it."


	19. A Murder of Crows

**Chapter 19: A Murder of Crows**

Zevran paused to listen as the bells of Antiva City tolled midnight. It was done, the treaty had been signed and Antiva was now officially part of the Empire. In the governmental palace the plutocrats and Imperial ambassadors would be toasting their success. Imperial troops were likely at this very moment packed into transports headed for Antivan ports. They would not find a country as amiable to their presence as its leaders.

Zevran allowed himself a brief smile at the thought of what was about to happen, like a man who knew the punchline of a joke that hadn't been told yet. He lived for this. His pulse quickened with excitement as he slipped from shadow to shadow through the city's massive port. All legitimate business on the docks had ceased hours ago. The only people about now were vagrants, beggars, drunks, and of course, the city watch. Zevran avoided their patrols easily. Occasionally he passed one of the wharf's denizens who would shoot him a knowing glance or a rapid hand signal.

He settled into a narrow alley between two large warehouses and stared at his target. The Imperial warship was not the largest he had ever seen, but it was impressive nonetheless. Long and sleek, built for speed, its triple masts rocked almost imperceptibly as waves lapped against its hull. Six Imperial soldiers stood guard in three pairs along the pier, and Zevran spied more helmeted heads moving about on the deck. He estimated fifty to sixty sailors and soldiers were bedded down in the lower decks. A low whistle sounded from a few yards behind him, and Zevran responded with the countersign. He didn't hear the other man approach until he was standing over his shoulder.

"Is everything in place?" Zevran asked. The Ben Hassrath agent grunted as if the question had been a personal insult.

"My agents did their jobs," he said irritably, "All the drops are secure. If you Crows muck this up, it won't be because of us." Zevran rolled his eyes and looked over his shoulder at the other elf.

"You know, Gat," he said, "This saucy attitude of yours is very unbecoming. We are friends now, remember? You really should work on your bedside manner." Gat glared back at him.

"There's a difference between being friends and being allies, Crow, you'd do well to remember that." Zevran's face darkened and his tone turned suddenly icy.

"Yes," he said, "I'm sure you would do well to remember that as well." Gat scowled but said nothing in response. "Do you have what I need?" Zevran asked.

"Of course," Gat said as he removed a pack from under his cloak and handed it to Zevran. It was a small, nondescript canvas bag a little larger than a melon. Although clearly stuffed full, it was incredibly light. Zevran eyed it suspiciously as he weighed it in his hands.

"Are you sure this is enough?" he asked. Gat's dour expression turned into a grin.

"Trust me," he said, "It's more than enough." Zevran shrugged and slipped his arms through the straps, swinging the pack onto his back. "What do you plan to do after tonight?" Gat asked.

"Return to Skyhold," Zevran said. "The offensive is launching soon, and I have many agents in Ferelden that I will need to coordinate with the Inquisitor."

"Back to Skyhold?" Gat asked, "But then who will be in command of all this?"

"No one," Zevran said simply.

"No one?" Gat repeated, his brows furrowing in concern. Zevran chuckled.

"Think of it as a boulder rolling downhill," Zevran said as he clapped Gat on the shoulder, "Once it starts, it just keeps going. All it needs is a little push." Gat looked him up and down suspiciously and then shrugged.

"Then have at it," he said, "My orders take me to Par Vollen. Perhaps we'll see each other again."

"Of that I have no doubt," Zevran replied. Gat nodded and began walking away. Just before he vanished into the shadows he paused and looked over his shoulder.

"Good luck," he said.

Zevran watched Gat fade into the night and returned his attention to the warship moored across from him. It was time now, and he felt a heightened sense of things as his mind and body prepared. He felt the salty sea air blow through his hair, the drakeskin armor under his coat hugging his body comfortably, the familiar feel of the short sword and dagger sheathed at his hips. The rhythmic creaking of hundreds of ships and the gentle lapping of waves against the shore were the only sounds. Zevran pulled a bottle of Antivan wine from the pouch around his waist and looked up into the night sky. The stars were brilliant in their multitudes, and he took a moment to admire them even as they made him feel small under their gaze.

"Dear Maker," Zevran whispered, "I have never asked you for anything, and I am not even sure you are up there. But if you are, grant me this one favor: Just stay out of our way." Zevran grinned and touched two fingers to his eyebrow in a salute, then he pulled the cork from the bottle and took a long drink. He checked to make sure his tattered coat hid his armor and blades, and then with a lurch stumbled out of the alley toward the warship.

The two guards nearest to him spotted him instantly, hands went to their swords and they tensed. Zevran swayed toward them, one arm held out to his side as he unsuccessfully tried to pour more wine into his mouth with the other. He tipped his head back a little too far, balanced for a moment on one foot, and then fell onto his back. He pulled himself up into a sitting position with a groan and began singing a bawdy tavern song, slurring his words horribly. The guards relaxed, their hands slowly moving away from their hilts as they looked at each other and back at Zevran, who was now swaying back and forth merrily to the off-key tune.

"You there," one of the guards said in a heavily-accented annoyed voice as the pair walked toward him, "This dock is off limits. Go on and get out of here!" Zevran looked up at their sneering faces with a dumb smile and held up his wine bottle. The guard rolled his eyes and grabbed Zevran by his collar and pulled him to his feet. "I said move along!" the guard said as he shoved Zevran in the chest. He let the momentum carry him backwards a few steps, swung the bottle in a long arc and brought it crashing down right on the bridge of the guard's nose. The man fell to the ground amidst shattered glass, clutching his ruined face. Before the other guard could react, Zevran was burying the shattered remains of the bottle into the man's throat, severing arteries and sending blood gushing everywhere. Before the man hit the ground Zevran's short sword was in his hand as he sprinted directly toward the gangplank of the warship.

The second pair of guards had been alerted to the altercation, one was running with sword drawn to intercept Zevran as the other raised a horn to his lips. Before he could blow it, an arrow thudded into his chest and sent him sprawling to the ground. Zevran met the other guard running full tilt and ducked a swing to his head. He slashed across the soldier's exposed thighs, pivoted on the balls of his feet as his sword stabbed upward behind him right between the imperial's ribs. He continued to spin and pulled the blade free as the man fell to his knees. The final two guards on the pier lay dead, pierced with arrows which were now falling liberally on the deck of the ship itself amidst shouts of alarm from the troops on watch. Zevran raced up the gangplank and stopped. A soldier barely five paces away looked at him in surprise and swung his heavy crossbow around to fire. The soldier's weapon was clumsy, Zevran's was not. With a flick of his wrist a throwing knife pinned the soldier in the stomach and sent him doubling-over onto the deck. Zevran quickly pulled the pack from his back and jammed it into the rail with a knife, then he leapt onto the pier and hit the ground running. From the rooftops of the two warehouses he had been hiding between only moments before, he saw several small flames spark to life. The flaming arrows drew streaks through the night sky, and Zevran spared a glance over his shoulder to see one of them strike the pack on the rail dead center.

There was a deafening crack and a blinding flash, the force of the explosion threw Zevran several feet. He maintained his balance and staggered back into the alleyway, clutching at the wall of the warehouse for balance. He looked back at the warship and stared in amazement. It was split practically in two, water pouring through a massive gash in its side. Flames spread across the deck and climbed the masts into the rigging. Cables and ropes snapped as the once proud ship began sinking beneath the sea.

Several black-clad figures with bows and quivers slung on their backs dropped silently to the ground around Zevran. They wore stylized masks of black feathers and red-tipped beaks that hid their faces. One of them stepped up next to Zevran and observed the carnage.

"It's begun then," the Crow said. Zevran held up a hand for silence.

"Not yet," he said in a whisper, "Wait." For a few tense moments the group crouched in the dark and waited. Then, from farther up along the wharf, another explosion tore the air, then another, and another. Fires sprouted in the night sky, along with the sound of screams, horns, and alarm bells. Zevran grinned as he heard another sound drift down from the city behind them: The sound of battle-cries and clashing steel. "Now it has started," he said as he straightened and threw off the tattered beggar's coat. "Now let's go turn it into a real war," he said with a devilish grin and took off at a lopping stride toward the city, the shadows of a dozen silent Crows following in his wake.

They entered the poor district of the city first. Ghettos filled with tenements to house thousands of dock workers and their families. The plutocrats did not much care what happened in this part of the city at night, and so the city watch patrols were fewer and lightly manned. Their grisly remains littered the streets and alleys. The men had not just been killed, they had been overwhelmed and butchered. Sloppy, not the work of Crows, but of the gangs of men and women filling the streets wearing makeshift armor and red sashes around their waists.

The Nationalists wanted Antiva to be a true Republic with elected leaders, but for years had been a force without any real power. When the Crows had learned of the treaty negotiations months ago, they knew exactly who to leak the information to. With a few well-placed agents, some smuggled weapons and hired mercenaries, the Nationalists had galvanized into a fighting force. An undisciplined and untrained fighting force, driven more by years of pent up discontent at the ruling merchant princes than any real strategy or long term goal, but they would be useful. If everything was going according to plan, similar uprisings were occurring all over Antiva at this very moment.

The Crows greased the wheels, taking out key targets, using gatlock explosives provided by the Qunari Ben Hassrath to sew mass confusion. It was working perfectly so far. As Zevran's small band made its way into the wealthier quarters of the city, the sounds chaos of fighting grew fainter, the number of bodies in the streets fewer. But these bodies were conspicuous. Strung up from street lamps or tied to mansion gates, signs that read 'Collaborator' or 'Imperialist' hung from their necks. These men and women were on a list, and one by one names were being crossed off.

Zevran's party thinned out as they got closer to the governmental palace until only he and three others remained. Alderas and Quinn were two of the most accomplished assassins in the guild. Brecca was unique in that he was an apostate mage, one of the few the Crows employed. They stayed to the shadows and moved silently along the wall of the palace. Its parapets were crowded with soldiers staring nervously down into the city, every gate and door was closed and barred.

Except for one.

A small servant's exit that could only be opened from the inside remained unguarded. Under a bush nearby, right where it was supposed to be, was another Ben Hassrath package containing four small clay bulbs with hemp fuses. Zevran handed two to Brecca and kept the other two for himself. For several minutes the four men remained pressed against the palace wall, their eyes fixed on the small door.

"Are you sure this contact is good?" Quinn asked nervously.

"She'll be here," Zevran insisted. As if naming summoned, the door creaked open. Zevran reached out and opened it the rest of the way and found himself staring into the blank face of an Antivan soldier. Zevran reached for his blade, but the man fell limply forward, a dagger between his shoulder blades. Zevran looked into the open door and saw a cloaked figure waving him inside. He motioned for the others to follow him and in a moment they were standing in a cramped storage room before a cloaked and hooded figure. A delicate hand pulled back the hood revealing an exotically beautiful woman with locks of dark hair falling about her face.

"They're in the west wing," she said without preamble, "Fourth floor reception chamber. Guards are everywhere on high alert, but these should get you by them easily enough." She motioned to two tabards with Antivan crests emblazoned on the chest, along with two helmets with eye guards that would cover half their faces, and standard issue falchions. "Once you reach the fourth floor of the west wing, they will be useless though. Only Imperial guards are permitted there, the ones in black armor that accompanied the ambassador." She visibly shivered.

"How many are there?" Zevran asked as he pulled the tabard on over his own armor and strapped the falchion to his hip.

"I only saw ten," she replied.

"Ten?" Brecca scoffed, "I'm not too worried."

"I think maybe you should be," the woman said, and she looked at Brecca with an expression that made the mage pause for a moment.

"Do not worry," Zevran assured them, "Hopefully they will be close to the ambassador." He waved Alderas and Quinn forward and they removed their masks as Zevran introduced them. "They are two of my finest men, Lady Montilyet. They will see you safely to the Free Marches. From there you can get transport to Orlais or Skyhold. I would suggest Skyhold, since I will be there myself, thus making it the most interesting place to be." He grinned and winked playfully, which caught Josephine off guard. "I would very much like to get to know you under less stressful circumstances." She stared at him and shook her head.

"Are you…really flirting with me? At a time like this?" she asked incredulously. Zevran shrugged and chuckled.

"It is what I do," he said playfully, then turned serious. "Thank you, Josephine, for everything." He took her hand and squeezed it and to his surprise, she squeezed back.

"This is for Antiva, Zevran, for Thedas." He nodded solemnly as she pulled her hood back up. "Please, do be careful." She turned and Zevran nodded to Alderas and Quinn, who replaced their masks and quickly ushered Josephine out the door into the night. As the door closed, Zevran looked at Brecca and nodded.

"Are you ready for this?" he asked.

"It's what we do," Brecca replied. Dressed as palace guards, the two men exited the cellar and quickly headed for the west wing.

They abandoned any pretense of stealth, relying instead on their disguises. They walked quickly and with purpose, adopting a military cadence to their steps. The ruse seemed to work. They passed several groups of Antivan guards, none of whom attempted to stop them or even gave them a second look. As they entered the west wing of the palace and climbed the winding stairs to the fourth floor, the flurry of patrols suddenly vanished. Everything was quiet, seemingly abandoned. Zevran and Brecca walked cautiously now, hugging the wall and checking their corners as they weaved toward the reception chamber at the far end.

"This is strange, right?" Brecca asked rhetorically. "So many important people in one place, and with the rioting in the city, you'd think there'd be half a battalion up here." Zevran nodded, it was very strange. According to Josephine's intel, the king and the heads of Antiva's seven most powerful families were up here, along with the Imperial ambassador. That was a lot of influence to be trusted to only ten guards, no matter how elite they were rumored to be. The duo turned one final corner, and at the end of the hallway stood the guards.

There were eight of them, standing perfectly still and rigid in a half circle in front of ornate double doors. They were an impressive sight in matching black heavy armor and ornate helms that covered their faces. Each had a long, curved sword hanging at his hip and a broad shield made of the same metal as the armor. As Zevran and Brecca stepped cautiously into the hallway, the guards drew their swords in unison and dropped into fighting stances. They didn't move or say a word, and for a few drawn out moments Zevran and Brecca regarded them curiously.

"Would you believe me if I told you we had a message for the ambassador?" Zevran asked nonchalantly. In response the guards started moving forward at a slow but deliberate pace, their feet falling in perfect time. "I see," Zevran said, "Unfortunately we do not have time to play this game. Brecca?" Zevran stepped aside as the mage threw out his hands and six fireballs sprouted to life in mid-air and flew toward the guards. They halted and their shields locked together with a thud. The fireballs struck and seemed to melt off the black metal like liquid. The guards unlocked their shields and continued forward. "Okay," Zevran said, backing up a few steps, "Plan B." He pulled one of the clay bulbs out from under his tabard. Brecca flicked his fingers and the hemp fuse lit up. Zevran whipped the grenade at the foremost soldier as hard as he could. It shattered against the shield and the resulting explosion sent the entire formation flying in every direction. "Come on!" Zevran shouted.

He and Brecca sprinted toward the double doors. Most of the guards were dead or in a daze, but a few were getting to their feet. Zevran drew his falchion and swung it back-handed at the neck of a soldier as he ran past. Sparks flew as the blade glanced off the soldier's black armor. The force of impact sent him sprawling backward, but he was on his feet again in a flash, charging straight ahead. Zevran slashed again and again, the soldier batting his swings aside with gauntleted fists, driving Zevran back to the wall. He ducked a savage punch aimed at his head, spun and slashed at the back of the soldier's knees. There was no metal there, only black leather, and the blade bit deep. The hamstrung soldier fell to the ground thrashing, unable to regain his feet. Zevran saw Brecca across the hall, engaged with two more of the soldiers. He had picked up one of their fallen shields and was doing the best he could to fend off a flurry of blows. Zevran tossed the falchion aside and drew his short sword and dagger. He crossed the hall and with a single slash crippled both of Brecca's opponents in the same way he had his own. One of them thrust his blade behind him as he dropped to his knees, and Zevran's own armor barely turned the blow. He swung his dagger around the soldier's neck, found the small space between helmet and breastplate and slit the man's throat. Next to him, Brecca beat the other guard into stillness with the shield before jamming his falchion under the armpit and into the man's heart.

Zevran and Brecca stood gasping for breath, Brecca bleeding from a deep cut to his shoulder. He nodded at Zevran and pulled a grenade from under his tabard. Zevran took out his remaining one and together they kicked open the double doors.

The king of Antiva and seven merchant princes huddled together in a corner. Standing in front of them facing the door was an older man, dressed in all black with a silver sash across his chest. Two more of the black-armored guards stood at his sides, swords drawn. He glared at Zevran and Brecca, his lips forming words that didn't come out. Then his eyes were drawn to the clay bulbs in their hands as the fuses caught flame with a word from Brecca. The ambassador's eyes went wide.

"I've been waiting to say this all night," Zevran said with a sinister smile. "The Antivan Crows send their regards."


	20. The Sundering of Thedas

**Hello all. I apologize for neglecting this fic for so long. I had to deal with some pretty traumatic life events over the past few months and was just lacking the energy I needed to dedicate to this tale. Life is getting back to somewhat normal now, and after taking some time to evaluate where I want this story to go, I will be getting back at it. There is going to be a time hop, and the following is just to get everyone up to speed on where we will be picking up from here. Thanks to everyone who stuck around, and I hope you continue to read and enjoy. – Riddle of Strider**

 **Chapter 20: The Sundering of Thedas**

 _Two years after the Antivan Uprising…_

 _War rages across Thedas. In the north, the Empire is engaged in a vicious conflict to wrest control of Antiva from rebel Nationalists and subdue their allies in the Free Marches. Kirkwall, Ostwick, Markham, and Windervale have all fallen to Imperial forces. Only a valiant counterattack by the combined forces of Starkhaven, Ansburg and Tantervale under the command of Prince Sebastian Vael managed to halt the Imperial advance._

 _In the south, the Grand Army of Thedas, comprised of the Inquisition, Orlais, and Tevinter launched a full scale invasion of Imperial occupied Ferelden, crossing the Frostbacks from Skyhold, Sahrnia and Sulevin's Cradle. It is the largest military coalition in recorded history with the blessing of an Exalted March declared jointly by the Andrastian and Imperial Chantries. The allied army penetrated Ferelden as far as the Hinterlands before encountering the Southern Imperial Army, setting the stage for the largest confrontation between Thedosian and Tamrielan forces since the invasion of Thedas over three years ago._

 _For several months, the two colossal armies clashed in the Hinterlands, neither able to gain the upper hand before the Emperor marched from Denerim to personally take command of the Imperial Army._

 _The Battle of Calenhad's Hold was the turning point. The Dragonborn unleashed the full fury of his Dragons and Centurions on the Thedosian forces. Victory for Tamriel seemed inevitable until, unlooked for and unexpected, another score of Dragons descended from the skies and attacked the enemies of Thedas. At their head was a great white Dragon, larger and more powerful than any ever seen. Both armies fell back, and for three days watched in fear and awe as the dragons battled each other. By the end, the field was littered with the carcasses of the great beasts, the survivors of the maelstrom having fled in every direction._

 _Once again the armies drew up their lines for battle. The Dragonborn Emperor donned his armor and sword, and for the first time in over a century, was at the front of his army. The Emperor was a force of nature. Fear went before him and followed after him. His mere presence was enough to send stout-hearted soldiers from three of the greatest armies in Thedas running in fear. Those who remained could not touch him, could not even get close to him. He laid waste to all in his path with sword and spell and the power of the Voice. Once again the Imperial Army seemed on the verge of victory, and that the Emperor would single-handedly break the Thedosian Alliance._

 _One soul stood against him. He walked calmly onto the field of corpses, eyes shining with the light of a thousand stars and wreathed in blue flame. With a cry that echoed like thunder in the mountains, Solas Fen'Harel challenged the Dragonborn._

 _What followed was a cataclysmic clash of wills between two men who were more divine than mortal. It climaxed with a flash of blinding light and a deafening explosion that laid waste to everything for miles around._

 _Fen'Harel and the Dragonborn were nowhere to be seen._

 _The shock and awe of the clash of gods sapped the will to fight from both armies with neither able to claim the victory. The Imperial army withdrew to the town of Lothering and fortified battle lines that stretched from there all the way to the edge of the Kocari Wilds. The Inquisition and its allies established headquarters at West Hills. Both armies have been holding their respective positions for the better part of eight months._

 _According to official reports from the Empire and the Inquisition, both Solas and the Emperor were found alive but severely wounded shortly after their encounter. However, neither has been seen since._

 _The once verdant Ferelden Hinterlands were left a blackened wasteland now known as the Desolation. Nothing grows, and even the carrion eaters do not venture there to feed on the veritable banquet of rotting flesh. Rifts in the Veil are abundant, and the land is rife with demons and restless spirits. Darkspawn war parties scavenge the land, drawn from their subterranean strongholds by the scent of death and decay, spreading their own Blight sickness._

 _Patrols sent by both sides into the Desolation rarely return, and those that do recount the horrors that lurk there. The war is far from over, but neither the Imperials nor the Allies are willing to risk a full scale assault across the Desolation, and so they hold their positions. Planning, waiting for an opportunity._

 _But today, one man is braving the long dark of the Desolation. Alone and surrounded by dangers and terrors, a single Imperial soldier is picking his way through the killing fields. His back is to his own comrades, his face is toward the enemy. He is driven by desperation and fear, fear of what he has discovered._

 _He must stay alive long enough to reach the Inquisition and its allies, and he must get their leaders to listen to him. The fate of both Tamriel and Thedas hang in the balance, and if he fails, a fate worse than death awaits them all._


End file.
